You spend months and years planning, preparing, praying and hoping/wishing/dreaming about bringing your child home and then BAM that day arrives.
Suddenly (in our case) you have these older children in your home.
They think they run the place, think they've had it better, think their former lives were a literal Utopia where the houses were made of gumdrops and the rivers ran orange with Fanta and they had the biggest straw around.
Your bed isn't nice enough.
Your clothes aren't the right style or color or fabric or... whatever.
Your food is crap and yet there isn't enough of it offered.
With a handful of English under their belt, they interrupt your directives
with a raised hand and "I know."
I beg your pardon? You most certainly do NOT know.
You DO NOT know how furious it makes me when you make that vomit face when I serve oatmeal.
It makes me want to blend it up and pour it down your throat with a funnel like one of those ducks they make into Fois Gras.
But I show great restraint and instead offer to reward you with an apple or banana if you finish. Instead, you say you want mango.
Fresh out of mango.
You push your bowl away.
I grab the bowl and toss it across the floor, sliding it like a hockey puck until it reaches the wall where it lands with a thud... so the dog can enjoy your breakfast.
Sorry, maybe we will try lunch.
I decide not to make oatmeal - against the wishes of every bitter bone in my body.
This is not what I pictured.
I didn't envision growing bitterness toward my children.
I didn't hope for a sinking feeling of dread when I hear their feet hit the floor in the morning.
I didn't wish for a son who talks like Caillou and acts like a 10 year old girl.
I didn't dream about whining/tattling/entitled little brats demanding to play on the laptop - then slamming the laptop screen shut out of anger and shattering the display.
I didn't see myself becoming a screamer.
Their quirks are annoying. The ridiculous way they overuse words in their broken not-yet-learned-English sentence structure or doing the tongue-click noise mid sentence like a Valley Girl... it's annoying. A 7 year old boy who twirls like a ballerina on tippy toes, plays with his hair, and giggles like a prom queen at Justin Bieber on TV while sitting with his legs crossed...not endearing.
It skeeves us out.
The way I feel at this moment... just shy of 6 months into this...I hope it goes away.
I hope I find their "preciousness" as Dr. Purvis says.
I see glimpses of it... but they are quickly overpowered by crappy behavior or some form of stupidity.
I'm ready for the normal.
And this better not be it.