How can Meadow be progressing so beautifully, receiving healing and confidence, finding her footing amongst her siblings and learning what it means to be a family girl while Flint is moving fast and furiously in the opposite direction? I asked myself this. Frequently.

Frustration and irritation were emotions I was becoming intimately acquainted with in my interaction with the boy. How did this happen? When he first came to us, he brought my heart such joy. The cheerful, quiet, adaptable, child, sweet, adorable Flint. While I struggled along, trudging through the days with Meadow, when her responses to every day, normal occurrences were beyond typical, Flint was such a delight.

Meadow had my attention. Front and center. We worked together. We cried together. We talked, learning to break through the language barrier. We developed trust. With her unacceptable behavior, she demanded that I teach her. She expected my time. She got it. She was desperate for me. I responded to her. She responded to me.
We bonded. We found love for one another.

Under the radar, while I was terribly busy, Flint slipped through the cracks.

He became more comfortable as time went on. Which meant he acted out more, became naughtier. Which I was happy to see because he was feeling more at home. But it was so constant. All my dealings with him became about correction and redirection. Verbal communication was difficult at best. He was not picking up language the way Meadow was. We couldn't seem to get anywhere. It was so cyclical.
I became exasperated.

My husband was the one who pointed it out. One morning as I complained, yet again, tears welling up in my tired eyes. I'm failing that boy. I don't have it in me to do this well. I was not a good fit for this role. I don't even like him very much. How am I supposed to love him? Be a mother? He's going to despise me.

He wisely asked me how often I initiated positive interaction with Flint.

As a mom who usually finds words of affirmation and physical touch to flow easily toward her children, I was deeply ashamed to say, practically not at all. Maybe never. Not anymore.
Essentially every encounter was negative.

The tears flowed freely now. I didn't even bother wiping them away. I was so sorry.

All I did was "put out fires" with the boy. Intervening in this and that. Disciplining and correcting again and again. He had required so little of me before - had been so easy. I couldn't figure out what happened to him. I failed to realize that he had needs too - needs to feel loved, and accepted, and cherished, and applauded for his good deeds and his character - needs to find his place in our family, and I was not meeting them.

Something had to change. I had to change.

I began to hug Flint. Often. Smile at him when he came to ask me something. Sit by him while he colored at the table. Speak encouragement. Laugh at his antics as he tried to relay something funny in English, even when I didn't understand his words. Put on music and dance with him, because the child can groove. I kissed his cheek and cheered with enthusiasm when he began to ride a bike. I looked at his face, thought long and hard about his mother, the one before me. Treasured him. Savored the miracle of his presence in my life, in my living room, in my heart. Flinty.

And I found love again. The kind of love that isn't only committed to service and perseverance, but the type that wells up in my heart, making it full, happy. The boy brings me such joy again. I have more endurance, more compassion as I deal with behavioral issues.

I don't deserve the patience these children have given me. It is a gift without merit.

They are my teachers and I am their student.