To pray is to “our Father”.
Monica, in particular, is a pro with the Lord’s prayer. She CAN’T WAIT to say it before dinner. Night time is for Our Fathers of thanksgiving. As Kelly says, “thank you so much a Nicolas, a Diana, thank so much a papi y mami”. Monica rambles (often quite loudly), thanking God for her family, herself, the pool, the bed, the dog, spring, her teacher. She then likes to finish with the real Our Father.
Sometimes – I think just to check if we’re paying attention – they like to slip mean thanksgivings into their Our Fathers. As in, “thank you so much that I made Mami cry today.” On suggestion by our wise sister-in-law, we add the Amen and leave the bed when this happens. It now happens less often.
I’ve started to think of prayers as Our Fathers. I find it comforting.
* * * *
Since introducing children to our house things break down at astonishing rates. The current frustration is the bathroom sink (actually, both bathroom sinks…but at least one is partially working). Its clogged with rust, organic mush, and one unfortunate toothpaste cap.
Knowing that these projects can turn into all day events, I marked off Saturday as the day to replace part of the drain and get things cleaned out. Part of the job involved chemicals (as in Drano) and recognizing the girls propensity to touch all things (especially Kelly) I was a bit nervous.
I didn’t get very far. Saturday Monica decided to push hard to find boundaries.
It actually started Friday when, in perfect Spanish grammar, she informed me that she “no longer chose me as her Papi.”
“You don’t love me,” she pouted. “I pick a different Papi.”
Now I’ve sort of expected this at some point. But I also was a bit surprised. I mean, it’s such a cliche moment – your adopted daughter telling you that she wanted a different family. How many adoptive parents (or – heck – non-adoptive parents) have their kids say that? I didn’t get angry. In fact, I busted out laughing. Which is never a good thing to do with Monica because that tends to irritate her more than getting angry.
Anyway, Saturday was rough. Probably the roughest I’ve had since getting the girls. Since that day I’ve a number of friends assure me that the behavior I dealt with can be pretty normal for a 5 or 6 year old. But still, I think it’s different with adoptive kids. With adoptive kidos you’re dealing with children who’ve already had a world of hurt dished out to them. That parent/child bond of trust isn’t immediately there (even if it’s developing at a good rate). You want to be careful, yet firm, loving but not a pushover. You need to think in a split second about actions and reactions.
And, well, it’s hard. It’s scary.
After 7 or so volcanic meltdowns we came to find out that Monica missed her foster family. These girls don’t have the vocabulary – in Spanish or English – to describe what their feeling. It’s part of the Sherlock Holmes aspect of parenting. Why the behavior? Because her foster mom – someone who had been there for her for the past 2 years – was missed. That didn’t excuse the meltdowns. But explained them.
So now it’s Thursday. I still haven’t gotten the sink fixed. But we’ve lived a lot of life.
* * * *
Before falling asleep that Saturday night Monica went for one more fight. I brought her into the guest room, which that day effectively served as a padded safe room, and embraced her, waiting for her to calm down.
She struggled and went to bite me. Just as I went to restrain her arms she suddenly stopped and looked at me full in the eyes.
“Papi,” she said. “Our Father?”
My God, she wanted to pray? Where did this come from?
I quickly nodded. “Yeah Monica, let’s Our Father.” And we did, her following my lead as went through the rhythm.
“Monica,” I said after the prayer. “Let’s make this our key. When we’re angry and we have to come to this room for a consequence, let’s always make it so that we can stop and say Our Father.”
She melted into a hug and said “OK Papi”
I think part of being a father makes you sentimental. Part of being a Christian makes you tremble – particularly as you get an idea of sacrifice and love. That night, after putting her to sleep, I cried a bit. I was humbled, hurt, a little freaked out, and worried.
But I found new value in saying Our Father.
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