Benjamin didn’t resist being put in the crib. He seemed to be out cold. I left him there, tucked under the covers, and went downstairs and poured myself the biggest glass of wine you’ve ever seen. It wasn’t quite the first evening home that I’d imagined with Colby. There was no: ‘Oh my goodness, aren’t we lucky?’ and ‘Can you believe he’s really here?’ It was more just trying to keep our eyes open.
Anyway, an hour or so later, I went into Benjamin’s room, and I saw that he was awake, but even though he must have heard me when I came up the stairs, he didn’t react. The way he was sitting really depressed me. He had his legs coming out between the bars of the cot, and his forehead resting against the bars, like he was some kind of caged animal.
I went over to make some loving, motherly gestures. Benjamin’s eyes were open but it was almost like he was in a trance. He didn’t respond at all. By now Colby had come up the stairs to see what was going on, and he said, ‘We should just leave him, let him sleep tonight and see how things look in the morning. He’s probably exhausted and I know I am.’
I agreed to follow Colby to bed, but I couldn’t go to sleep. I watched Benjamin on the monitor. He didn’t move for an hour. He stayed exactly where I’d left him, with his head resting against the bars and his legs stuck out through them. I decided I should go back in and see if there was anything I could do to settle him, or at least get him to lie down and be more comfortable.
I went up the stairs very quietly and went over to touch him, but he flinched. It was as if he was allergic to me, or as if my touch was hot.
I went back to the kitchen and just sat at the bench for a while. Then I gulped down the rest of the glass of wine and decided that I would have to get some sleep, and I must have managed to nod off because the next thing it was dawn.
It was still a little dark outside, but I went up the stairs to Benjamin’s room. There wasn’t much light coming through the attic windows, so I ran my hand along the inside of the wall until I found the light switch. I wanted to be careful not to wake Benjamin if he was asleep. I turned the dimmer down low, and flicked the light. At first I thought, ‘No, my eyes mustn’t have adjusted properly, I must be seeing things.’ But I wasn’t seeing things: Benjamin had spent the night clawing the beautiful blue-and-white wallpaper off the walls around his crib.
There were large strips of it lying in the crib and on the floor, and he’d left patterns on the wall, like when you get sunburnt and you peel all the big strips of skin off.
I was really angry – I had spent ages decorating that room – but everyone says that these adopted children are distressed when they get taken out of the orphanage and you have to be kind and patient. So I gulped my feelings down, walked across the room and lifted Benjamin out of the crib, saying, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I can fix this.’
Of course he couldn’t understand me – I still have no idea, really, how much English he understands – and in any case, my patient reaction seemed to make no difference to him. I went to gather up the strips of paper out of the crib and that’s when I saw that Benjamin had pooped in his bed as well.
I didn’t know what to make of that. I’d put Benjamin into Pull-Ups before I’d put him in the crib. That might sound strange given he’s four, but he really isn’t toilet-trained. The staff at the orphanage had him in underpants – horrible old grey ones with stretched legs and an old man’s opening in the front – but he’d wet them in the van on the way back to the hotel.
I had tried to change Benjamin out of those wet pants back at the hotel, but he fought me off and it felt … I don’t know … wrong to be trying to rip the undies off a child I hardly even knew, so in the end I left them on, and maybe that was a mistake because from that day forward there’s been trouble on the peeing and pooping front.
I started each day in Moscow trying to get Benjamin’s pale legs into the new trendy undies we’d brought for him from the US. But before long, every pair we’d taken with us was soaked through, or stained with poop, and how can you really encourage a child to use the toilet or the potty when you aren’t even speaking the same language?
We decided in the end to put Benjamin in the Pull-Ups that we’d brought with us, which worked well enough and were a godsend on the plane.
I figured that I’d have plenty of time to help Benjamin get back into using a toilet once we got home, but I have to tell you, it hasn’t been easy. I didn’t scold Benjamin for pooping in his crib that first night, but even though he’s been with us for almost two months now, he is still not using the toilet and will go in his pants or on the kitchen floor, or wherever he happens to be.
For some reason, Colby seems to think that this is my fault, and also my problem to solve.
I don’t know if everyone’s relationship is like this, but Colby hasn’t actually been all that involved with the day-to-day caring for Benjamin since we got back from Moscow. He went back to work a week after we got home and Benjamin has mostly been my responsibility since that day. I have no idea what Colby told his colleagues about the experience of picking up Benjamin. I do know that he didn’t exactly take the digital camera in to show off pictures of his new son. I also know that I lasted only about ten minutes that first day before I was phoning him, trying to get him to come home and help me, because Benjamin had started screaming again. But of course Colby isn’t stupid! He didn’t pick up because he knew it would be me, sobbing and crying.
People who haven’t experienced what we’re going through probably don’t understand. There’s the screaming to deal with, and the pooping and peeing, and there’s the problem of getting food into Benjamin, and of trying to get him to understand what I’m saying, and believe me when I say I get no thanks from him, not a smile, not a giggle, nothing.
It’s more like a war.
With the toileting, I’ve tried everything – coaxing him, praising him, threatening him, rewarding him – and he simply will not use the toilet, and because he kicks and scratches when I try to get his wet underpants off – and he’s incredibly strong – I’ll admit that I’ve taken to leaving him wet, and I’ve found that he’ll eventually strip himself out of his filthy pants and he’ll leave them where they fall for me to find. I’ve also lost count of the number of times I’ve had to get down on my hands and knees to wipe a fresh poo – sticky and stinky – off the floor, or even the walls, because he throws his filthy pants at the walls, too.
I keep thinking, it’s just not possible that he behaved this way in the orphanage, is it? Because I honestly cannot imagine those Russian nurses walking around behind Benjamin, cleaning up his mess. Colby has said to me, ‘We should do what my father used to do with the dog, and rub his nose in it. That’ll put a stop to it.’ But you can’t do that, obviously, and in some ways, the poop is the smaller problem, because the bigger problem is food.
My initial thought, back when we first found out that Benjamin was four years old, was that he would be able to sit at a table and eat from a plate, like anyone else, and so I didn’t buy a highchair. I didn’t think I’d need one.
Then we found out that he couldn’t use cutlery, so I’ve had to start teaching him, as if he’s a baby. And it’s not exactly easy because Benjamin also doesn’t know how to sit at the table. I’ve tried to help him. I’ve demonstrated how it’s done, and so has Colby: we’ve pushed him down onto a chair, and we’ve moved the chair into place, bending his knees and pushing his bum down, but he immediately climbs off and sits on the ground. I said to Colby, ‘It’s crazy. He doesn’t seem to understand about furniture.’ Luckily one of the neighbours had an old highchair they didn’t need anymore and Colby asked if we could borrow it. So, now I have a four-year-old who uses a highchair! And that means I start each day strapping Benjamin into the highchair, in the hope of getting some food into him, but even that doesn’t really work. He’s strapped down – the highchair has some braces built into it – but he still thrashes his head from one side to the other, refusing to let the food on the spoon anywhere
near his mouth.
Sometimes he thrashes so hard, I think the chair might topple over, and I almost always end up with food splattered all over the walls. I’ve taken to wearing a rubbish bag over my clothes so I don’t ruin everything I own. It really is amazing to me, how he resists being fed. Surely, after the orphanage, he’d be so happy to have good healthy food?
Another problem we’re having – and I’m sorry to have such a long list – is Benjamin’s basic lack of respect for things. I told you how he scratched all the wallpaper off the wall? Well, that hasn’t been the end of it. Like everyone, I was looking forward to reading books to Benjamin at bedtime. That’s one of the lovely things about being a new mum, right, being able to read to your little boy?
Well, one of the first times I tried, I pulled up a chair beside Benjamin’s crib and said, ‘I have a new book here and I’d love to read it to you.’ I speak to him in English like that because everyone says the best way for children to learn is just to speak English. And also, the sound of your voice can comfort them apparently, even if they don’t understand what is being said.
I opened the book – it was a thick cardboard picture book – and began to read. I turned each page slowly, and I gave a commentary: ‘Look at this, Benjamin! A blue horse! Have you seen a horse before?’ I might as well have been talking to myself for all the reaction I got, and in the end, when I was finished reading, I just said, ‘Alright, I’ll leave the book here for you, Benjamin, and I’ll leave your night light on. Maybe you can look at the pictures? Anyway, good night.’
I didn’t dare try to lean into the crib to kiss him, and instead I stretched out an arm and put my palm on the curve of his bony spine. Just like every other time, he flinched at my touch.
I left him to it, and watched for a while on the monitor, but there was no real movement. Then, in the morning, when I went into Benjamin’s room, I saw that he’d torn all the hard pages out of the book and thrown them around. I was very upset and trying not to show it because everyone says that’s the worst thing you can do and you just have to be patient. Believe me, I’m trying.
Comment (1):
Oh, Caitlin, I have been exactly where you are and it’s so frustrating! You want to do a good job and you’re doing everything by the book and nothing seems to be working. That’s the way it is with these children and you just have to hang in there. Two steps forward, one step back – your friend, Sandi Miller!
Comment (2):
I agree, Caitlin. It’s refreshing to hear somebody ‘tell it like it is’ with adoption. It’s not the fairytale everyone says it is and there can be some real challenges to overcome. But what you’re doing is amazing – giving a child a new chance at life – and you should be praised for it.
Chapter 25
The (Alternative) Book of Benjamin
Hello again. The title of this post is ‘Don’t Make Plans’.
No, really, don’t make any plans involving your child – and especially not their schooling – until you’ve really got to know them. And if you do make plans, be ready to throw them out the window as reality hits.
I planned for Benjamin to attend a beautiful school nearby – let’s call it St Paul’s Nursery School – so he could start meeting other kids and learning English. It’s expensive – like $15,000 a year for three half-days a week – but they only take twenty children, up to the age of five, and the classes are held in a pretty building near the harbour, so it gets a lovely sea breeze.
According to the paperwork we got from the orphanage, Benjamin was four when we picked him up, and probably he’s about to turn five, so technically he should be going into what we in Australia call Big School or Primary School, but of course we were warned that children from orphanages tend to be developmentally delayed, and may not cope well in a big school. So, just before we went to Moscow to pick up Benjamin, I went down to St Paul’s to meet the director. I explained to her that I’d been allocated a child and that he was already four years old, but he would be under-developed physically and emotionally, and he wouldn’t speak any English so we were keen to keep him out of Big School for another year.
She invited me along to Open Day, and I spoke to most of the teachers. I wanted to know if they had ever had an adopted child before. Also, what did they know about children adopted from the Russian orphanages? They were thrilled by the idea of taking Benjamin – such an interesting project! – and they all said they had never met a child they hadn’t been able to make welcome in their lovely little school. I was invited to ‘tour the facility’ and ‘meet the director’ – two things I don’t think my own mother did when we lived on Magnetic Island!! – and, sure, I was impressed. The director explained about the ‘nurturing environment’ and how good they were at letting children ‘express themselves’.
I sat in the room with the other mums, feeling like a giant in a little school chair. They gave out brochures with all the information: how they regarded each child as ‘unique’ and that all the children would be ‘nurtured’ to achieve their ‘full potential’. I went through all the guff when I got home: they had Mad Science, which sounded like a lot of fun, and the fire brigade came once a year to show off their truck.
There were photographs of children being allowed to handle bugs they’d collected from the garden, and photographs of happy children proudly showing off seedlings grown on cotton-wool balls. So, yes, it sounded lovely.
I was so happy when they said they could take Benjamin, but then, last week, I took him there. I’d agreed to sit through the first day with him. My heart was in my mouth. We’d been having so much trouble bonding – even getting his screaming under control – but I was hoping that once he got into school he would settle down, learn English and make friends. Maybe he’d even learn to sit still in a chair, something I hadn’t managed to get him to do.
I was expecting quite a lot from the teachers, in other words.
Well, it was a catastrophe.
Day one was wiped out by Benjamin’s decision to start talking. Bear in mind this is a child who has not said five words to me. He has only ever screamed. It started in the car, on the way to the school. Maybe it was Russian but it sounded like jibberish. He wasn’t talking to anyone. He certainly wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to himself, and it was a real conversation. He was making facial expressions and hand gestures, like a little Italian.
None of it made any sense, at least not to me, but then Benjamin wasn’t focused on me, or anyone else, he was focused on himself. I figured that by the time we arrived at the school he would have stopped the gibberish, and that he definitely would have stopped when the time came to walk – or carry – him up the path.
I was wrong.
He was completely involved in the conversation with himself. The lovely teacher at St Paul’s tried hard to get him to stop. She greeted him at the door, saying, ‘Well, hello, young man. So nice to meet you,’ but he ignored her, and kept prattling on. She looked at me, a bit perplexed, and I shrugged and said, ‘He’s probably nervous,’ but really, what would I know?
The teacher smiled and said, ‘Well, Benjamin, let’s come on inside,’ and he took her hand and allowed himself to be led into the building, but he did not shut up. She showed him the little cubicle where he was supposed to store his backpack, and then she led him into the little room with the miniature toilets, and on he went: jabber, jabber, jabber, and it was getting louder all the time.
‘Well, this is interesting!’ she said, but because they were all trying so hard to make this strange Russian child – this poor rescue case – welcome, they agreed to try and get on with things. It took some patience. We got there at 10 am, and Benjamin jabbered and jabbered until noon.
All the children were expected to take a nap at midday. The teachers took some small army cots out of the store room. They had blue canvas stretched over a steel frame. Everyone was supposed to take a blanket from the pile and choose a cot and lie down for an hour’s rest. It wasn’t easy to get any of
the children down – they were all pretty lively – and some of the other children thrashed around quite a bit before they eventually fell asleep, but not Benjamin.
They lay him down. He got up. They lay him down again. He got up. One of the young teachers – she was so patient – kept saying, ‘No, no, no, Benjamin. It’s nap time,’ but Benjamin doesn’t respond to requests, or even to rules. The more they tried to encourage him the more he snapped and started howling. He howls like a wolf. The other children started crying and clutching their blankets, and what could I do? I had to take Benjamin home.
And so, day two.
As soon as Benjamin realised where we were going – back to St Paul’s – he tried to get out of the car. I’ve long given up trying to drive anywhere without strapping him into a child seat. We can’t just use a seatbelt. He unbuckles himself and tries to get out of the car and it’s scary.
We arrived shortly before 10 am and I remember taking a long look around the inside of the school because, on some level, I knew I wouldn’t see it again. It was a beautiful school. The flags of many nations were strung up; there were photographs of the fun that had been had by children who had gone to the school in years gone by, none of which would ever star Benjamin.
First lesson on Day Two was ‘Movement with Amy’. Amy is a dancer and singer from the local area. She was wearing a yellow T-shirt, blue pants and red shoes. She stood at the front of the room, and the children were supposed to copy what she did. She held her arms out, horizontal, and asked the kids to balance on one foot and then the other. I stood right next to Benjamin, urging him on, trying to show him, trying to engage him. I might as well have been talking to a wall. All around me, normal children were laughing and falling over.
Can You Keep a Secret? Page 19
