FeelingXX has been clingy. Not just a little clingy – I mean, she wants to be carried all the time.
While my first thought is to say, “You can walk,” I have a feeling that I need to give in right now. Because, and again, it’s just a feeling, it’s not that she wants to be carried, my daughter wants to be held.
You wouldn’t have seen this. The push/pull behavior happens at home, when we are alone. XX calls for me, but pushes me away. Asks for kisses, then hits me and turns her face. Asks for love, then kicks. It seems at times, mean and manipulative, and calculated to pinprick at my confidence as a mother.
She’s sweet, loving to friends and guests, then yells NO at John when he leans in to give her a kiss. If possible, his pain rips at me more than her behavior.
We’re nowhere near crisis or even problem status. These moments are but blips in a week, they don’t even occur daily. My honest answer to anyone, even to myself, would be yes, she’s bonded to us. And she is. I’d say she’s happy. If you haven’t seen pure joy lately, come visit. She knows how to do “glee” better than most. We’ve come a long, long way.
But it’s ongoing, this bonding process. She’s already lost her birth family and her foster family and probably a nanny or two at the orphanage. That’s a lot of loss for such a young child. Her behavior seems fine, “normal” under the circumstances. And beyond this, she’s a feisty and independent two year old who is teething again. What is “her” and what is her experience? I don’t know how to separate or if it’s even possible.
XX has a high tolerance for pain. When she does hurt herself, she’s always hit us away, yelling “NO!” while she self-comforts. If her stress level is high, she will make it worse and hit her head with her fist. It’s extremely upsetting to watch and while we sometimes force the issue and just pick her up, usually to let her know that self-inflicted pain is not the answer, neither of us has wanted to make our arms a place of punishment.
So we’ve tried to give XX time and space. I know there are varying opinions on how to help this attachment along. But if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that only we know how to help this child. Our child. Right or wrong, I’m feeling my way through. Juju told me that at one point, she just tossed all the help books out and started concentrating on loving her children rather than reading about other people’s children. She always gives me the most sensible advice.
And now, oh, now, even as the days grow shorter, I see more light.
When I hold XX, she holds me back. All day. When I pick her up, she doesn’t hold herself upright, or push back as she used to, she rests her head on my shoulder, hugs me and murmers ever so softly, “ma ma ma ma ma ma.” She pats me on the back, she kisses my cheek and my lips. She hugs me tightly. She presses herself next to me as we sit on the floor to read. She comes running to me arms open, smiling from ear to ear.
She goes to John sometimes and he, too, feels the magnitude of her love. Oddly, if she spends a little time with him alone, I become the enemy. When she’s been with me, he’s the enemy. She can’t give herself to both of us at the same time yet.
Then, almost two weeks ago, XX bumped her head on a table. She didn’t hurt herself, but she came to me and asked me to kiss her head and then told me she felt better as she cuddled into my lap. Such a small incident, and yet enormous. It's taken nearly a year and a half for her to come to me for comfort. She’s starting to do it more regularly, once when she did hurt herself enough to cry. She put her arms up and I held her. I think we both felt better.
We have yet to hear her say “I love you.” I think that will be really hard for her to give up. I pity the men in her life; she’ll make them work!
But the words don’t matter. When I look down at her during the day, she smiles up at me. I smooth her hair, she smoothes mine in return.
With this, comes something else: she wants to nap cradled in my arms. My tiny piece of the day to get work done is gone as I hold her. But she sleeps longer and more peacefully than she ever has. There is no screaming midway through the nap, no tantrum when she wakes up. Even John’s noticed. When two hours are up, she opens her eyes, smiles and says, “Hi, Mama.”
It’s two hours of physical pain. My arms hurt, my neck hurts, my butt goes numb. I ache to stand up and move around. But I look down at her face and can’t think of a better way to spend the time.
What a feeling.
