"You're not my Mommy"

She had said this in the context of a discussion we were having about material things and deprivation. But for me, it was of a piece of things that have developed since Maia's presentation of her timeline.

The presentation had gone very well.

Her teacher had told us that she had delivered her presentation in a strong voice and tha the children had been interested in her story. They had given her high marks for her presentation (the children got to grade each other), and she had been proud of her performance. We had taken her out to eat that tonight to celebrate the achivement--Buca di Bepo, her favorite restaurant.

Maia's attitude towards us had changed after the presentation. Kristina said that it was as though the presentation had broken the ice. She talked more about Kazakhstan and having been adopted.

But you could see that she was dealing emotionally with it.

"I love you more than my other parents," she said to each of us from time to time in the days after the presentation.

I finally said, "You don't have to say that, Maia. They love you, too."

Christmas was good. We had David, Kalei and Alex over, along with a neighbor. It had been a pleasant evening. But Maia has some acquisitiveness about material things that rubs Kristina the wrong way. I don't know how much of that is just being a kid and how much of it comes from feelings of deprivation from being orphaned. I know that when I was about 9, my mother had set up a surprise birthday party for me and had gotten very angry with me for just tearing mindlessly into the presents.

Kalei had forgotten one of Maia's presents and today she brought it over. It was a top in pink with the word "love" on the front in glittery stuff that was glued to the material.

Maia had expressed the wish that it was purple.

In reaction to Kristina's look, Maia said, "It's too pink."

Later, Kristina had wanted to talk about material things. She talked about how fortunate we were and she was to have enough money to buy the things we want to buy, and how the important thing about a gift isn't the material thing and the sentiment that goes with it.

"Lots of children don't have things," she said.

"I wish I had a Mommy," Maia said.

"What about me?" Kristina said.

"You're not my Mommy," Maia said. There wasn't any rebellion in the way she said this.

Kristina let it go.

"Who is she?" I asked.

"Just kidding," Maia said. "You're my best parents. You're my best friend," Maia said.

And I think all of that was really true for her, too.

A little earlier in the morning, Maia had been running after a nerf ball she'd gotten for Christmas. She tripped over the cuff in the pants she was wearing--a pair of Kristina's--and had spilled headlong onto the marble kitchen floor, bruising her hip. She had cried, and I had held her for a long time, soothing her in the way my Mom used to soothe us when we had hurt ourselves. Kristina had come in and kissed her head, and Maia had stood up to be hugged by her, too.

The one thing I have learned about this process is that there's nothing in it that is reducible to simplistic conclusions.

John, Saturday, December 26, 2009

Maia's song--a new person in the world

Tomorrow, Maia gives a presentation. She is talk about her "time-line"--her personal history--to her classmates.

The prospect has put her on edge for the last week for two reasons--the content and the format. She doesn't like to talk to groups, and the content brings her closer into contact with the fact of adoption than she'd care to be.

We practiced the presentation with her tonight. She did very well--she was voluble, smooth, and even funny. With us, she's very different than the way she is with others in performance situations. It's always been this way. When she was taking hula, she delighted in doing dances on a table for us at home. But in group performances, she just froze.

We did the last run-throughs of the presentation in her room, before bedtime. Then I went downstairs.

Kristina came down a few minutes later.

She told about a song she had heard Maia singing.

"I'm so glad my Mommy and Daddy adopted me," she had sung. And then she had stopped singing and started to cry.

"I miss my family," she had said. "I miss my mommy and daddy. My daddy died because he used drugs. And my mommy was eaten by an animal. I only have two friends. And so you have to be nice to me because I'm a new person in the world."

"It was sad," Kristina said.

This is the presentation that Maia had been rehearsing:
"I was born on July 15, 2002 in Kazakhstan. Kazakhstan is on the other side of the world It is near China and Russia.
"When I was 22 months old, I came to Hawaii.
"When I was 2 years old, my Grandma came to celebrate my birthday.
"I had learned 500 words.
"When I was 3 years old, I started preschool.
"When I was 4 years old, I went to Seattle for Christmas with my Grandma, Grandpa, cousins and auntie and uncle.
"When I was 5 years old, I started kindergarten at Hokulani, and we moved into our new house."
"When I was 6 years old, I started first grade at Hokulani and I got my first fish. "His name is George.
"When I was 7 years old, I started second grade at Hokulani. I went horseback riding on November 27, 2009 on the Big Island."

The last reference was to our trip to the Big Island for Thanksgiving.

That trip had brought out thoughts about adoption, too. On the first day, we were driving back to the hotel, and Maia and Kristina were talking in the back seat.

"Why didn't they want me?" she asked Kristina. She was talking about her parents.

"Maybe they couldn't take care of you," Kristina said. "And we got to adopt you."

I went back upstairs after Kristina told me the story about Maia's song.

Maia appeared to be asleep. I gave her a kiss on the forehead, and headed back downstairs. But Maia called to me before I had gotten too far.

I went back to the bathroom to throw it away, but she said, the rubbish can is there, pointing to a spot near her bed.
You can sleep by me, she said.

I knelt on the floor by her bed. I could feel the wet spot on her pillow, and her nose was all stuffed up.

"If your birth mommy and birth daddy could see you tomorrow," I said, "they would be very proud of you."
"What do you mean?"
"Your birth mommy and daddy. The ones you had when you were born."
"Oh, you mean my old mommy and daddy."
"Yes," I said. She thought about this. She started to rub my head--it gave her some kind of connection to me.

I got her some tissue. I went back to the bathroom to throw it away, but she said, "The rubbish can is there," pointing to a spot near her bed.
"You can sleep by me," she then said. She hasn't made that request in a while; over the last month or so, she's been going to sleep by herself, and only occasionally comes into our bedroom now.
I started to crawl into bed with her.
"But Mommy…but Mommy…I will…"
"You will break your record?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Do you want me to go? If you want me to get out of bed, I will," I said.
"I can’t choose," she said. "Maybe if you just sleep a little while and then get up..."
"Then you won’t break your record."
"Yes," she said.
So I did.
She snuggled close to me—unusual for her.
And soon she fell asleep.

John, Monday, December 7, 2009