Whiplash Parenting

I have two beautiful daughters, both of them intelligent, kind girls with different learning styles and ways of expressing themselves.  They are more opposite, though, than I ever dreamed they would be.  The older one from China (now 8 and named April on this blog) is intelligent and gaining confidence as she grows.  Her abilities are in doubt only to herself.  She has a wealth of common sense, an invaluable and under-rated quality in our over-the-top society.  And because this child has a tendency to be reserved, understated, and subversively resistant to answering adults' questions, she sometimes recedes to the background and gets overlooked when her younger, more voluble and outgoing sister takes the stage.

Bee (a pseudonym chosen for our second child because she is "busy as") is from Ethiopia.  She is six and we adopted her when she was 27 months old:  Her age technically made her "special needs" in the adoptive world, where parents frequently request infants. Very fortunately, we were able to meet Bee's birth mother-- a woman of immense integrity:  it fairly radiated from her from her small, mighty frame.  She told us in her tribal language that she wanted her daughter to have a good education.  She told us her daughter was "our daughter" now.  She completely released this beautiful force of energy into our lives--a little girl who is passionate, mischievous and prone to testing every limit.  A kid who reads at least two years above grade level and tries to take apart and construct new things out of old things (including her bike, which I recently found in her bedroom).  A kid who rarely walks when she can run, unless you want her to run and then she walks.  A kid who insists on the last word, even when that word is irrelevant (a word she can use correctly).  

When parents relate stories about how smart their kids are, there is often a hint of awe in their voices.   Because my kids are not physically related, I can't do anything but marvel at their remarkable, unique selves.  They are their own people -- in sometimes shocking ways.  Bee is so outgoing she can take my breath away, whereas I have to coax April to even say "hello."  Bee is not the least intimidated by adults, not even me when I'm angry. When asked, she admits that she likes to make me angry sometimes, because she thinks I am humorous when I am trying to be serious.  She lets me know in all sorts of ways that she thinks she's smarter than I am.  Because she is not intimidated when I discipline her, I sometimes wonder if I lack authority and if she respects me as a parent?   April, on the other hand, is devastated at the least hint of criticism and will put herself in time out before I even mention the possibility.  I constantly shift parenting gears between these two kids...  It is a dizzying ride some days.

Recently we went to the county fair where there was a midway full of noisy, perilous rides.  At the entrance of every ride were measuring sticks to assure all riders' were large enough to safely embark on the whiplash contraptions.  There were also signs stating that all rides had been inspected by experts to assure their safety.  Supposedly, when we were picked as parents for our kids, a lot of "experts" sifted through the reams of paper we submitted to assure we were the right people to nurture the specific kids we were matched with.  Social workers, doctors, directors, consulate folks and even a biological parent waved us onto the ride of parenting:  We climbed into our cars and took off on a twisting, twirling, climbing centrifugal race.  As parents, my husband and I looked forward and immediately saw a steep, intimidating curve ahead of us.  As speed picked up we began to clench the lap bars and pray our keys and wallets wouldn't fall out of our pockets onto the earth that blurred below us. One kid from the beginning raised her arms over her head and began whooping and hollering:  the other sat straight and kept her arms in the confines of her car, but she began to smile, her eyes agleam with joy.

Maybe I should just hold my hands up in the air and whoop and holler like my youngest.  Maybe being louder and bigger might increase my authority and stature in her eyes.  But I don't think that will work.  In fact, I think the opposite is called for:  quiet, deliberate CALM.  For both the ultra-thick-skinned and the ultra-sensitive kids in my life. ...Sigh.  That means I have to exercise more self-control, and that is a hard exercise to take up when I'm making dinner and feeling at my limits. My strikingly opposite kids are going to teach me a lot.  It's going to be an interesting ride--because I am sure I will whoop and holler on occasion, especially when I hit the curves and begin to plunge at high-speed on the rickety rails of parenting.