The Names have been changed...

I grew up in the 50's in high school, when it was common to have air raid drills at school, hide under the desk,  talk about the cold war and watch jets fly over in formation.  I always feared it, shivered and did not see why others were light hearted and easy going about it.  I had been born in the worst bombing of Berlin, my Mother had walked with two babies in a baby carriage across Germany, and then in 1947 we had taken the " Ernie Pyle"  to America.  The ship was so badly damaged from torpedoes, it nearly sank off the coast of Britain.  We were moved by cable chairs to another smaller ship, at sea, the "Marlin", because the English were afraid we would seek asylum in their country, so would not allow us on land.  Maybe the longest trip ever, but Mother, brother, and I made it.  No  wonder I am not at ease around   sirens and air raids.  They were the real thing for the first four years of my life.  I cry at parades, maybe because the sirens shout and squeal, and I tremble at the fireworks, it may come as no surprise.

The first children placed with us were only 4 and 6 years old.  CC was almost 5, and had been moved through 11 foster homes since she was about 1 1/2.  Before that she had moved within her family, from grandmother to aunt to Mom and around.  Her brother, E, had about 5 moves, but was seriously abused, because he was visually disabled, tilted his head to one side, and the previous adoptive parents hit him over the head with a board to make him hold his head straight.  The scar on his head never healed properly, nor did the inner scars for either child, when they moved into our home.  A kind of survivor's trauma never quite allows child's emotions to relax and unwind.  They become imprinted by this series of events and react with  unpredictable  triggers of anger or emotion when reminded of those energies of the past.

.  The first day we met her, she was so happy, she jumped up on Jim's lap, and said, "I love you!  I want to go home with you and be your little girl!"   You really need to be in touch with reality to adopt children.  This is not real.  It is not the child's feelings speaking, it is what she knows you want to hear, and she is not in touch with her own feelings.  At least, not deep feelings, BECAUSE SHE DOES NOT KNOW YOU THERE CANNOT BE DEEP FEELINGS YET!
When children are sweet looking, have been taught good manners, and behave well, we think they are "all there".  We do not expect there to be empty parts within, but when you have not fully parented a child, they have had to parent themselves.  The give and take of conversation, the approval of a loving caretaker, the loving hand of the one who bathes and feeds them, the soft voice of someone telling him a bedtime story or singing a song, all left silent and empty for the growing baby to fill with its own cries of longing, so often stilled in desperation.   
 At first CC would just curl up in a ball in the corner of her room, and turn red.  I would wait for her to cry, miss her foster mom, or say something, but she would not. She cried dry tears.  E would not blink or move, he would get stiff.  I asked at bedtime, "May I give you a kiss?",  to which he put his arms at his side, like a soldier getting ready for a medal pinning, and I would plant one on his cheek.  To call him, I got used to saying, "E, come to the top of the steps!" because he could not come TO me for fear of getting hit. We changed many habits  raising our 10 year old daughter, to raise these  two darling children.  It was different because they came from a different world,  already wired differently.  Truly this was creative parenting:  never one moment without excitement!  This is what "makes the world go round".
The most interesting part of this adventure was when years later I discovered such interesting parallels about myself through my children:   my first adopted children and my brother and I were the same ages at our biggest move- ours to America from Germany, theirs to our family from foster care.