Lovesongs and Bedtime Rituals

I just finished our nightly two hour bedtime routine. I realized while I was lying there that I have never really shared this nightly ritual with anyone. In some ways it feels that sacred to me - as if speaking about it took some of the magic away. But, lying there, tracing my fingers across my daughter's little feet until they were numb (my fingers, that is), I thought about how much I wish all moms and daughters had this time together every night - what a difference it would make for all our waking hours.

Each night, after teeth brushing and face washing and dog hugging, my daughter comes to me and says something like 'Mama, come cuddle me.' Sometimes it's just 'cuddle time' and other nights I hear only 'Come...' as she grabs my hand and leads me into her room. It makes no difference that later I will be sleeping in the bed next to hers. She needs me now, to help to through this transition into sleep.

We turn on the music, and I lay toe-to-head with her so I can reach her feet. She cuddles up into her covers and quilts and starts rocking softly, but always remembering to stick her feet out to nuzzle next to my side.

I start running my fingers along the bottom of her feet and, later, her legs. She has a repertoire of movements that are meant to signal me if I am going too slow, too lightly, or am simply being too sloppy about it. Shaking her foot up and down means I'm doing it too light, hitting me gently with a foot means speed it up, and both feet rapidly drumming the bed means 'too sloppy, mom, wake up!' And while this ritual goes on, there is the music.

It is the same music every night, in the same order. It is our music. It tells the story of our life together and our friends and family, and God forbid if I ever change it or add a new song. I won't burden you with the whole playlist, but for a taste...

We start with Lullaby by Billy Joel. A piece he wrote for own his daughter. It speaks so beautifully about that sacred time shared before bedtime. Then it's Bless the Broken Road, that tells the story of our journey to find one another. Then it is our song, the one that was playing on my CD player as I rounded the corner to the orphanage to go and take her home: The Luckiest, by Ben Folds. Three years home with her, and I still cry each time I hear this song. The tears may be fewer now, but there nonetheless. It has become our prayer to one another, our exclamation of gratitude.

Then come five or six more such songs that speak of my love for her, and then it moves into our 'family' songs. There is If I loved You and Always sung by Frank Sinatra - two songs that we pretend my Dad (her grandfather) is singing to us from Heaven. Then there is Somewhere Out There by James Ingram, that we sing to her sister, far away in Russia. Finally, there is Everything to Me by Mark Schultz, which is for her birthmom. She doesn't like me to sing that one with her. It's hers alone - a moment each night to connect with the woman who gave birth to her. Of course I cry my way through that one often enough, too.

Later, the songs become mostly instrumental -- Enya, Loreena McKinnett, old and haunting Celtic tunes. The ritual bittersweetly ends with my favorite classical piece, Clair de Lune, by Debussy. By this time she is usually asleep, and I am left awash in this pool of deep gratitude, in the dark, with her feet in my hands.

The day behind us could have been fraught with tantrums, tears, frustrations, and even full-blown ragings, but at night...it all gets laid aside. The lights go off, the feet come out, and the music speaks to us of this incredible journey we have travelled. All seems right with the world.

Goodnight:)

The Spring Standards

I guess I'm on a roll. A laziness roll, that is. Well, I can rationalize that blogging is not a lazy endeavor, right? So, although I find myself hiding at home in my pjs again, hanging out with my daughter, even watching some mindless television...if I blog about it, it becomes something of value in a way.

Last night I had a rare night out. Rare because if you are mom to a child with RAD and PTSD you can never count on seeing through any plans you make. It is a minute by minute negotiating of life. I know many RAD moms know exactly what I mean. Well, last night a miracle occurred. I was invited to go and see some new friends of mine perform at Club939 in Boston, and, lo and behold, my daughter was ok with my going. In three years of being her mom, this has happened, well, never. My daughter is almost sixteen, but in many ways is far younger than that (which is fine with me!) but it does make grown-up time almost non-existent. Anyway, the Spring Standards were performing, and all my favorite people were going, and I made the effort despite exhaustion, and mild "going into the city" anxiety.

I drove my young friend Zoe in, and we took the T part of the way. There was an opening performer, Liz Longley who had the voice of a been-around-the-block angel. I even bought her CD. And then Heather and James and James took the stage, and it was like a visit to a better, brighter world. I don't even really know how to define their music. If I had to, I'd say combine folk, blue-grass, a pinch of pop, a dash of alternative, some Ben Fold-ish lyrics, Ween-like melodies, Peter,Paul & Mary harmonies..and you might have an idea of what they create. I was entranced. They were on Conan O'Brien recently. Good. More of the world needs to hear them. Truly.

So, today I am just revelling in the joy of last night's escape. And being a bit too lazy.

Lazy Saturdays

My to do list is well over a mile long, and I'm not getting any younger, but something happens on Saturdays that makes me forget both of those facts. I give in to the sleep gods and later to the nap gods, and not much happens in between.

As hard as I try, I just can't seem to make Saturdays a productive day. Now it's not that I don't want to. I dream of early-risen Saturdays with a sunrise walk of the dogs, a pre-opening trip to the local farmer's market, a quick dash to the bank to make deposits, a stop for coffee, a glamorous trip to the dump to unload all of my recyclables, maybe a stop at the carwash and jiffylube to get my car up to par. But where am I right now at 2:40pm? In my pajamas, eating stale coffee-cake, sitting in front of the computer after a magnificent nap.

When I'm feeling guilty, I remind myself that sleep apnea is likely to blame, or maybe the crazy week of little sleep, or the insomnia. But none of those rationalizations serve to relieve the guilt. I guess I'll just remain in a kind of limbo between activity and do-nothingness until I get a handle on the psychosis behind the action.

Right now Henry is lying at my feet, his paws splayed to the side, and his nose resting on the cold floor. Matilda is resting on her pink dog pillow. I hear my neighbor sawing wood in his driveway with some god-awful electric saw that sounds like some painfully old woman is dying a slow death. I'm trying to ignore it, but it just keeps getting louder. My desk is cluttered with papers, catalogs, clorox wipes, checkbooks, an empty oatmeal bowl, my wallet, glasses, crumbs from various snacks, a dirty paper plate, a calendar from the middle school, an old minolta camera lens, unused birthday cards, a stapler, two plugs, and three empty medication bottles. What gives? How did this mess manifest? And when?

Ok, time to hit the shower...

You Can Do It, You Can Do It...

OK, I'm going to do this. I'm going to start blogging again. Really. Truly. I think.

Anyway, I rediscovered this, my old blog, when I googled my grandmother's name. I had forgotten all about it (this blog, not my grandmother's name..) It was a happy little surprise to find it, and read what I had forgotten about, and see photos I lost track of. Anyway, I'm going to try to just free-write. Not think about it, just write. Because, well, that's how I used to journal, and I filled up twenty years worth of journals that way, and it served me well. Plus, I am a perfectionist when it comes to writing, so it will be a good, zen-like discipline for me to get in the habit of writing without editor-me hanging over my shoulder. Besides, I think it will also be the best way for me to get at the real me. No censorship, no re-do. Just me, as is.

So, to catch up, I'm still a mom and loving it despite the challenges of raising a child with RAD and PTSD (Reactive Attachment Disorder and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder for clarification...) My sweetheart has started therapy finally and is doing remarkably well with it, considering her aversion to:

#1 meeting strangers

#2 conversing with strangers

#3 talking about her past, and

#4 sitting still for more than 15 minutes.

She has also started school again, part-time, and that has been a slow win. She is repeating 8th grade, and my hope is she will make it there every day, though that is an unreal expectation.

It's so hard to try to do what's best for her without the support of my family and certain friends. If they could only spend a day in her shoes. I hate the fact that some people think she is lazy for not going to school. Even my mom has misgivings about it, as hard as she might try to hide them from me. Thank God for the therapist and psychiatrist, and school social worker. They all see what she's up against and offer great support and insight. I need to learn to disregard the disssenting voices and still always do what is best for my daughter. There is nothing I can do or say that will help these other people understand. God knows my sweetheart daughter has learned far more in her year of homeschooling than she would have had I tried to get her in the school door each day. At least now she is going part time at her request. She wants it to work. She wants to fit in. God bless those who understand, or even try to understand what a mountain she has to climb every day.

Home Schooling, One Week In

I think I'm moving towards a middle ground between typical homeschooling and unschooling - at least that seems to be how it's taking form right now. An online friend who also homeschools, reminded me "remember not to underestimate her - and remember it is easier to pull back expectations than do the opposite." I need to remind myself of that every day. Regardless of what I am feeling worry-wise, it is all very exciting.

Tonight we researched a few traditional Russian dishes she missed and then went shopping for ingredients. I let her write out the list, figure out the money we needed, choose the items, and pay for the items. She's still in the kitchen working on another recipe and it's 11pm at night! I think this foray into Russian cooking was inspired by our current book, which is a history-based, fictionalized diary of Anastasia Romanov and her life in Imperial Russia. It's bringing up a lot of memories from Russia, but mostly the good ones.

Regarding memories, we walk the dogs each night down to a local elementary school, and our new ritual is, we stop at the swings, and she swings for about a half hour while the dogs run around, and she does her own unique version of therapy. She climbs onto the swing, swings VERY high, and talks non-stop about experiences at the orphanage . I'm allowed only to listen...no questions. It has just kind of evolved over the past few weeks, and I'm learning her 'rules' as we go along, but she seems to really enjoy it. On the way home last night she had her arm around me all the way home and leaned her head on my shoulder.." Mom, I really like my swinging therapy...It feels good." she said. I, of course, according to the rules, was silent, but gave her a hug of recognition.

Cute phrase of the week (because these slip-ups are happening so infrequently now ...)

'Mom! Have a patient !' ( when I was rushing her to get her shoes on...)

Homeschooling (er, unschooling) Begins!

The New England Academy for Highly Spirited Russian girls named Anastasia has officially opened.

After a week visiting family in Florida, we are home and settling in to our home school routine. I have to admit, Anastasia is getting used to it far faster than I am. I'm still struggling with worry -- Will I be a good teacher for her? Will she actually learn anything from me? Is it ok that we do actual schooling during after school hours? Will I even survive the first week?

But I'm trying, oh so hard, to be easier on myself. Why? Because Anastasia is positively radiant with this change. Her personality has truly blossomed . She is more open, more hopeful, more positive, and best of all...more willing to say yes to things like emptying the dishwasher when asked! (Of course I'm kidding. I'm far happier about her current state of happiness than her willingness to do chores...) Anyway, it is like watching a chick emerge from its shell. It's fascinating to watch.

Still, we are taking it very slow. We are focusing mostly on reading, handwriting, and printing penmanship now - as those are her most glaring weaknesses, and the areas that bother her the most. We are also spending lots of time together walking the beach & through the woods. She asks me a thousand questions about each plant, each shell, each animal we see. And where she was always sullen and withdrawn after school, now she is so energetic and up for adventures when she gets up that I'm completely exhausted in two hours time. I notice she interacts much more with others and in a positive way. She had the mattress salesman in hysterics yesterday with her very witty banter, when usually, upon meeting a stranger, she would sulk behind me with her arms crossed. So, I guess I am writing this as a reminder to myself - that this is a good change for her.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow..

How apropos I'm directing Macbeth this month. Because, I get it...I get how Macbeth feels in that speech. I wish I didn't, but I do. I get it. Some days it really does feels that bad . For those who aren't familiar with the speech, it comes at the end of the play, and is a perfect study in of hopelessness. Here it is...

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
creeps in this petty pace from day to day
to the last syllable of recorded time;
and all our yesterdays have lighted fools
the way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle;
life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
who struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
and then is heard no more; it is a tale,
told by an idiot, full of sound of fury,
signifying nothing.

I can't help commiserating with Macbeth on this -- this week anyway. Chesky & Miriam losing their best friend Pete to suicide, Susan quickly losing her battle with cancer, and the Petit family. God be with the Petit family in Connecticut, their girls being raped and tortured by those two evil monsters . Sometimes I really don't want to try anymore. I feel like throwing my hands up and saying 'ok, bad guys, you win.' But I'm tired, and stressed and overwhelmed, so it's easy to sink into that space. But, dammit, I am sick about that family.

I keep replaying what happened to them in my mind, and just the thought of it propelled me to the bathroom last night to throw up. Not from sickness...from pure disgust and the deepest sadness. I cried about those girls all night long. Why did it hit me so hard? Maybe its because I now have a daughter? I don't know, but I could not get them out of my heart. I'm praying for them. That's all I can do. I'm praying for their Dad, and though I cannot fathom how he will live through this, I ask God to keep his heart beating. Let him find a way to walk this life. Is it possible? God, please hear my prayer.