Night and Day

Tomorrow marks two weeks home with G and A. This time two weeks ago we were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. I can't remember much of anything about last week, but today was a really good day, in stark contrast to last evening. The girls were awake late last night - we had gone over to their cousins' house for dinner about 5:30. We didn't leave till 7:30 after two hours of horsing around with 14 year old J and then just racing around while the grownups drank coffee and attempted conversation. By the time we got into the driveway G was stormy and stubborn and refused to leave the car unless I carried her. Since I was already carrying her sister, this was not an entirely reasonable request. To top it off, the dog had pushed open the backdoor while we were gone and run away, so K had to head out immediately to hunt him down, while I tried to get the two little ones up to bed.

I probably should not admit to this online, but when I finally carried G into the house, moaning loudly like some kind of miserable ambulance, I smacked her bottom and told her she'd better cut it out. I have never been much of a spanker, and I signed a solemn vow that I would never use corporal punishment on my adopted children, but my ancient mommy instincts were just too strong. As soon as I did it, I felt like a criminal. My first thought was that she didn't speak enough English to report me, but I remembered how good she is at miming things, and how easy to mime "angry Mommy striking helpless child" would be. Then, too, as she howled in my ear, I just knew she'd learn how to say "child abuse" before the social worker's next visit.

I decided to skip the toothbrushng and carried her straight upstairs to bed, howling and writhing the whole way. She usually sleeps in the bottom bunk with A, and I put them in bed together at first. G's wails became louder and angrier as the minutes wore on, and her mouth was right next to her sister's ear, so I moved A to the top bunk. I sat in the rocking chair beside the bed, trying to look as if I couldn't hear anything, and she bellowed as loudly as she could. The only time I spoke was to warn her she'd better not throw up when she began interspersing her yelling with threatening gagging noises. I felt heartless, yet strangely calm - I guess that's how heartless feels. Finally I picked her up and rocked her until she slowly calmed down. The wails became a little softer, she actually stopped for breath in between. Eventually she stopped crying and I laid her back in the bottom bunk. A was still awake up above, watching the drama with big, round eyes. I asked her if she'd like to move back to bed with G, never thinking she might say no, but she did. The injustice of the elder child being made to sleep in the lower bunk was just too much for her sister, who turned on the sirens again while stiffening her back and sitting bolt upright on her pillow. "How long, Oh Lord," I silently prayed, trying not to invoke an imprecatory Psalm as well.

Finally I gave in. Pretending it was all my idea, I asked her if she would like to sleep on the top bunk, as well. She was all smiles and clambered up immediately. Almost two hours later the two of them were still awake, laughing and giggling, singing songs in Amharic as well as several choruses of "Are You Sleeping, Brother John." I have no idea where they learned that. Although the sounds wafting down through the ceiling grate were happy ones, I dreaded what the next day would be like when the effects of sleep-deprivation kicked in. So, today was a wonderful surprise.