Elaina update! My rocket child

It's taken me longer than I planned, but here's the final update on my kids.

Elaina: almost 11 years old, performing as Galinda in "Wicked"

Elaina will be eleven years old at the end of September. She's our oldest and I have always described her as a rocket, shooting out into the world. Everything she does is at a hundred and ten percent and at a hundred and ten miles per hour.

As a baby, she cried between four to seven hours a day for six months straight. Now I know that she just wanted to get going with life. Once she could crawl and then walk, the crying stopped.

It's something about my first born... every time she performs in public; singing in an end of the year recital at school, helping with the worship team at church, dancing at the local, weekly ballet class... that makes me want to plop myself down in the middle of the venue and cry buckets of tears.

I cannot believe I have children. I cannot believe that God would trust me with them. I can't believe they are not only surviving, but thriving under my care. Seeing Elaina burst forward into life always shocks me. I'm her mother. This compassionate, stubborn, fun, somewhat anal person is my child.

We moved to Ukraine as missionaries when Elaina was just 2 and 1/2 years old (Zoya was 9 months). I struggled to acclimate to life as she picked up Russian like it was Sunday's paper on a leisurely Monday morning. She transformed into a little Ukrainian girl: speaking the language, eating the food, laughing at the jokes, as easily as a well loved transformer doll. I, on the other hand, resembled the Tin Man in the "Wizard of Oz" in search of the magical oil can to help me move.

When she was around four years old, I signed Elaina up for a ballet class down the street from our house in Kiev. Twice a week she got dressed in a serious black leotard. I worked at slicking her hair back into a tight bun in an effort to make her look like all the other Ukrainian ballerinas.

The teacher was mean. She barked out orders: no smiling!, stand up straight!, don't look to the right or left! and I stood outside the door in the cold, old Soviet building worrying that I was messing up Elaina's little self esteem for life.

On the morning of her ballet show (it really just was an open class), Sergei and Zoya walked down to the nearest store and bought her one bright pink flower. We settled into seats in the classroom and waited for the music to start.

And then it did: the music lurched forward and a line of unsmiling, concentrated Ukrainian four and five year olds dashed out into the center of the room. The moment I saw Elaina: my daughter, who at that point was my hero, dancing in a foreign country, no longer foreign to her, I started to cry so hard my whole face was wet. I tried to calm myself down. But as I watched her, looking intently out of the corner of her eye, and trying to follow her counterparts to a T, I was overwhelmed that this was my daughter, dancing into life, unafraid, secure.

And that's just how it is with Elaina. I watch her move confidently into life with grace and strength. Oh sure, she's a bit obsessive; she has been called bossy from time to time and she stresses over straight As in school. But even in her personality flaws I am learning from her. She is forgiving of herself and others. She loves God. She's talented. She's kind.

Last week, Elaina starred in a production of "Wicked", put on by a Chicago Park District summer camp. She was Galinda, the good witch.

I found myself once again, sitting in an old building with butterflies in my stomach, waiting to watch my daughter do something amazing and scary. The moment I heard her voice in the song "Popular," I breathed in deep in my gut and let the breath sit there inside me for a moment. Her voice filled the room and I blew out slowly.

God has blessed me with Elaina. He has blessed me with all four of my daughters. It's hard work and I complain too much about motherhood. I fail; I yell, I get angry, I get bored. But times like that, when I watch one of my children intrinsically connected to me, step more into her own skin, it's sweet. I can't quite describe it. It's like pieces of hard candy coming down to me from heaven.

Busy-ness and trees

It's a crazy time at our house. Everyone in the family is moving into a new bedroom. The set up will allow Elaina and Zoya each their own rooms (desperately needed... the shared room just wasn't working; Elaina is a light sleeper and Zoya has been getting into trouble with her for horribles things in the middle of the night, like, for instance, ...coughing.) Polly and Evie will still share, but are moving into Elaina and Zoya's old room. Zoya gets the guest room, Elaina gets our old room complete with a big closet (the clincher for her) and Serg and I will move into the largest of the four rooms in order to provide a bigger writing space for me at home.

I cleaned out the basement. We have nine Rubbermaids full of clothes that will be sold (hopefully) at the end of May at a garage sale in Michigan. And I'm slightly obsessed with Craigslist. I've sold the guest bed and the bunk beds and a dresser and bought Elaina's bed, Zoya's loft bed and a dresser, all in a week. My poor husband has acquired a second job as a furniture delivery man. Two rooms are being painted, and I've purchased new bedding. At some point, this all should be finished and we may get back to some semblance of normal around here. Maybe.

We are busy in other ways too. Polly and Evie each have yearly checkups in May and June: Ophthalmology, audiology, spinal scans, neurology, pediatrician general check ups, ENT, what else?, I am probably supposed to be somewhere right now... crap, where did I put the family calendar? I am thinking about schooling for Evie and Polly next year and their upcoming IEPs, forms for the older girls' summer camps (Elaina, theatre camp, Zoya, day camp) and carving out hours to finish the second draft of my book.

I'm not showered, but I did brush my teeth. There are two loads of clean, folded laundry on the dinning room table. Evie is playing with a push toy (big progress!), Zoya is home from school with the flu, Sergei's at the church and Elaina is at a friend's house mommy helping.

To be sure, it's too much. As I write Polly sits beside me, working on her lines and circles. Pre-writing skills are coming slowly. She is poking me gently on the cheek with her pencil. "Mom, write with me?" she asks over and over.

And somehow, I am thinking today about trees. In Ukraine, after Polly's birth, there was a tall, lifeless tree outside my window at the hospital. It was the beginning of April. There were no leaves, no green, hardly any sunshine. A bird sat at the tip of the tree every day, all day, for twenty days, while I waited for my daughter to gain strength and be well enough to go home. The bird became my friend. My world had been picked up and shaken like a snow globe with Polly's diagnosis of Down syndrome. He was still and peaceful. His presence soothed me.

While I've been running up and down the stairs of our two story house, flowers have bloomed outside. The trees are full of luscious, green leaves. Dandelions are growing on the front lawn.

I am drawn to the trees. I position my writing desk to look out the window. The tall limbs help me to breathe. I watch for birds and think and write. I love to look at an oak tree against a bright blue sky.

We are busy. And most days I am stressed, and worried, and unsure of parenting and writing and the new pair of jeans I bought at Target and if I am giving my best to God. But we are in a good spot, a time of peace and joy. A time of sunshine and tree leaves and for that, I am truly thankful.

I have a secret, though, something I didn't know before Polly came along. Something I wouldn't have learned had my life gone exactly as planned.

It's this:

The barren tree has purpose. How else could I appreciate spring blossoms without experiencing seasons of of emptiness? I've grown , my family has grown, and when I see a beautiful green tree I can give thanks. I realize more barren trees are in my future. That's just life. I hope I remember my secret about purpose and growth. The busy-ness of Spring will come back around for us in God's time.

And there is untapped beauty in empty trees.

Her Mother?

Last year, in a Ukrainian court room, a stern looking judge had Sergei and I rise. "Mrs. Marchenko, do you think you can be a good mother to this child?"

All I had to do was say yes. 'Da,' in Russian.

Instead, I burst into tears.

The judge's face softened. "Sit down, woman. The answer is in your tears."

I slowly sat down and tried to hush my sobs in an attempt to catch a few understandable words in Ukrainian. The court room business continued and a little girl abandoned at birth by her parents because of her diagnosis of Down syndrome officially became Evangeline Sergeyevna Marchenko.

Today, I sat in a observation room at The Erickson Institute, holding Evie after playing with her while a woman watched us. She took notes.

We've started evaluations at Erickson for Evie to see if they can help us determine if she is on the Autism spectrum or if what she does, stuff like eating dirt and rocking, is left over from being orphaned in Ukraine.

The thing is, after her tonsils came out and her ear tubes were put in two weeks ago, we've seen drastic changes in our daughter. She seeks me out throughout the day now. When I pick her up she smiles. She wraps her chunky little arms around my neck and squeezes.

I love it, don't get me wrong. But it scares the hell out of me too. Because I'm afraid I'll wake up tomorrow and she'll be back in her own world again.

Today in the evaluation she waved 'hi.' And then she said "hi." She interacted with toys. Simply put, she was on. Sergei and I looked at one another in amazement.

If these skills would have emerged a few weeks ago, I would not have made the appointment to have her evaluated.

I kept talking to the social worker about how Evie was, even a month ago, compared to today. She asked me to give her five adjectives that describe my relationship with Evangeline now and how I would describe what it was like in the beginning with her.

It took me a while to answer. I struggled to get words out. I muddled around. Finally I give her the allotted ten words she expected. I have no clue what I said tonight because it was so emotional. The words were so different.

"So, do you feel like her mother now?" The woman with the clipboard asked, blinking, her face a dead pan.

And I started to cry, again. Just like I did a year ago in that Ukrainian court room.

"Yes. I am her mother. I feel it."

I cried not because I was sitting in an observation room having my daughter evaluated for a dual diagnosis. I cried not because at three and a half Evangeline is still non-verbal or because she only eats pureed baby food.

I cried because she has come so far. I saw that plainly today.

I cried because today I realized that I'm the one who has farther to go.

There but for the grace of God go I.

Twelve Years!

Today's our wedding Anniversary.
Sergei and I have been married twelve years! This morning when I woke up it was dark outside, a storm was heading our way. Twelve years ago on our wedding day I woke up to a terrible storm and within a couple hours tornado sirens. Our whole wedding was planed outdoors; the ceremony and the reception. Everything blew away and family and friends scrambled to regroup and start over.

By 10am the sky cleared and the ceremony was quickly set up again back outdoors. I walked down the aisle to marry Sergei with the sun shinning brightly. God rolled away the clouds. Lovely. We said our vows in Russian and it wasn't until I lived in Ukraine for three years that I really understood all the words to my commitment to to Sergei.

Everything that could go wrong on a wedding day did. My family still talks about that day, all the things they didn't even tell us about so as not to worry us. We were obliviously happy after the tornado rolled through, laughing and enjoying our guests, stopping off at a rest stop on our way to our honeymoon destination to make out, because, well, we could.

Our married life has seen eight moves in twelve years, an ectopic pregnancy, three live births three different ways; an epidural, natural water birth and c-section, the shock of Polly's diagnosis of Down syndrome and then just earlier this year Moyamoya; being missionairies in Kiev, adopting Evangeline and pastoring two churches.

For fear of sounding extremely hokey, I'll abstain from providing the usual cliches regarding my marriage (you know, my best friend, love of my live, etc..).

But I will say it's been good.

Really good.

Happy Anniversary buddy!

Sibshops

Today I attended a workshop called 'Sibshops' conducted by Don Meyer, a hilarious communicator dedicated to a people group that is largely overlooked; siblings of kids and adults with special needs.

I sat in a room of close to 100 people and thought about Elaina and Zoya. I listened to adult siblings talk about the challenges and triumphs of having brothers and sisters with special needs. One sister cried, saying this was the first time she has connected with other siblings in her position. She is 28 years old.

It felt good to think about my two older girls, to write down tips that can help them in their unique roles.

Polly and Evie get a lot of attention by default. But Elaina and Zoya have needs too.

I found a sibshop that meets near us in Chicago today at the workshop. Elaina and Zoya will be able to go to a group once a month, play games, have fun and connect with other kids who have siblings with Down syndrome and Autism and Cerebral Palsy etc...

After our tumultuous year: bringing Evangeline home through international adoption from Ukraine and Polly's stroke and diagnosis of Moyamoya and subsequent brain surgeries I'm the first to tell you that there were many days that Elaina and Zoya were not on my radar screen. And as a mom that makes me feel like dirt.

I'm thankful that life has slowed down enough and God has pointed out to me the needs of my two older girls. They need attention, affirmation, security, experience.

This weekend Polly and Evie went to spend the night with my mom and dad in Michigan. Sergei and I took Elaina and Zoya out to eat and tonight we went to a show Elaina was performing in at school sans toddlers. Tomorrow the girls get to participate in their very own sibshop.

What a gift to focus on these dear girls for a few days.

It's filling my soul as much as it's filling theirs. It's imperative to remember there were four lives forever changed with the birth of Polly and the addition of Evie. The experience can make us rich or poor.

I hope I can help it to be rich for our family.

Thirty-five

Today is my birthday. I'm 35 years old.

And I'm trying to figure out how that actually happened?

On Sunday after church we had some people over for pulled pork sandwiches and warm Coca-cola (forgot to put it in the fridge, it's the Ukrainian in me...everyone drinks warm beverages there). I was sitting next to a fairly new guy at church who joined the worship group. We were having a nice conversation about music and church; what we like, what could change, why music is important in a service. I really enjoyed myself until I realized this guy was 19 which meant I was sixteen years older than him.

16 years!

In so many ways I can't believe I'm thirty-five but in other ways with all that we've already experienced sometimes I think my soul is even older.

This morning I woke up to sing songy 'happy birthdays' from the girls, giggles from Polly and Evie. Sergei taped the obligatory 'happy birthday' sign up in the dinning room, I bought myself a dress at Target with birthday money from my folks and ate three tag-along Girl Scout Cookies after lunch.

Sergei is taking me to dinner tonight, some place new, a surprise.

I have hope for this next year. I hope nothing major happens (but then again, I know better). I hope that Evie falls more in love with us and starts to open her heart to those around her. I hope Polly stays healthy, I count on her jokes and happiness every day. I hope Elaina and Zoya feel loved by God and their parents; I hope for many opportunities to play Clue and Wii tennis and to learn how to french braid their hair. I hope Sergei continues to stay close to Jesus and finds strength in God to do all that he's been asked to do. I hope I can put others before myself this year, that I can get serious about the story I'm writing, that I'll exercise and appreciate friends on my street and in my church. And then there's that pesky fear of the dentist chair I need to get over. I hope that I pray and read scripture and be open enough to let God change me.

I'm thankful today.

35's not going to be so bad.

In the zone

Last Thursday night I went to a Moms Night Out for my kids’ school. It took me an hour to figure out what to wear before I left. It was not going well. In a moment of pure insanity, I even tried on a pair of maternity jeans I had set out for a friend who is expecting. While admiring the boot cut fit, I schemed about a shirt that would actually cover the elastic band around my waist. Then I imagined bending over at the party and showing off my secret to neatly dressed, put together women and I peeled off the jeans and chucked them across the room.

Going to the party was definitely out of my comfort zone.

Which begs the question: where is my comfort zone?

And the answer: I have no idea. I have not been comfortable for years.

There have been many changes in my life in the last six years. Sometimes I liken myself to having gone through menopause several times.

First we moved to Kiev, Ukraine. Elaina was 2 1/2 and Zoya was 9 months old. For two years my husband helped out with a church plant in another part of town while buying groceries, paying bills and looking after his little foreign family. I studied the Russian language full time and learned to walk to the Metro station looking down at my feet. Things that came easy to me, American mannerisms like smiling at strangers, wearing your shoes in the house and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese were boxed up and left in my mom’s attic over the garage in Michigan.

Time went on. I tucked comfort around my children in our little seventies style apartment like a warm fleece blanket the only way I could think of. I mixed our new culture with the old, pouring the American Happy Birthday song in with the custom of not wrapping birthday gifts in Ukraine. We dressed the girls up in costumes for New Year’s Day and pretended it was Christmas. I found the only store in Kiev that sold Lasagna noodles.

Everything I did in Ukraine was uncomfortable, until one day it wasn’t, and I was able to conjugate the verb ‘to buy’ in Russian’s past, present and future tenses. After three years there I noticed friendly faces around me, offering to show me how to make a warm compress for my daughter’s cold instead of reaching for Tylenol. We were part of a church that was growing closer to one another and to God, and my oldest daughter was learning addition and subtraction in her Ukrainian preschool.

I almost felt comfortable. So we decided to try for our third child.

God blessed our efforts and along came Polly. She was born there in Ukraine, three weeks early, in a private hospital that looked a lot like our western hotels. After her birth I had to learn a new language. I had to find out how to speak special needs; words like Down syndrome, IEP, therapy, hypotonia.

We landed (twenty days overseas in the NICU, packing our lives up once again, saying goodbye to our church) in Michigan and attempted to find comfort in our new surroundings once again.

I thought that moving back to the States would be easy. I already spoke the language here. Only, my time overseas changed me. A large part of me identified with Ukraine. I was out of place in church. The music was loud. There were too many faces. Every thing was so big and people had a lot of stuff. I came home from Zoya’s preschool round-up drenched in sweat. I remember standing in the school supplies aisle at Walmart, overwhelmed by the variety of paper and pens and lunch boxes.

And then last summer, we moved again, from Michigan to Chicago, from rural to urban, from middle class to upper class, from being average church goers to my husband pastoring a church.

And once again I am out of my comfort zone.

So, you see, there really is no such thing as small talk in my life. Which is why I dreaded the Mom’s Night Out last week. My small talk either gets big quickly or it gets quiet. Simple questions like, “where did you live before you moved here?” or “what does your husband do for a living?” or the ever present, “tell me a little bit about your kids?” do not have simple small talk answers.

After I found an outfit that fit, the party last week wasn’t that bad. I made small talk. The questions came up and I answered shortly, “we lived in Ukraine,” “my husband is a minister,” “I have three girls; seven, six, and two.”

My life has changed so much and so quickly, at times it’s like watching a three ringed circus. I have the poles and the plates, I am just having a hard time getting them all to spin at once.

In the midst of all these changes, I am finding that comfort is not really the point.

I speak different languages; special needs, English, Russian, Christian, urban, rural. And every language molds me a bit more into who I am to become.

I guess I am learning to speak small talk here in Chicago as well and to be OK with it.

That, in and of itself, brings me a bit of comfort.