I’ve been talking to several adoptive parents lately, good-hearted, intelligent couples who wanted to share their upper middle class lives with older children who needed a family.

They excitedly contacted social services, had a home study done, got their fingerprints cleared, and jumped through every hoop that was demanded of them.

They fixed up bedrooms, buying the best, outfitting closets, packing book bags in anticipation, repainting, renovating and buying larger vans or automobiles. Beside themselves with anticipation, several of them already had well-behaved, well rounded birth kids who also shared in the excitement of adding to their family through adoption; such a noble concept, a feel good moment.

Then the child or children arrived and a honeymoon period began.

“They’re so darling, fitting in exactly like family, I don’t think we’ll ever have any problems,” the new parents gush.

Then real life begins, the testing behaviors heat up, conflicts arise, the under belly of adoption shows itself where the new parents reel in shock at the venom that’s vented upon them.

“I won’t be treated like this! We don’t allow our own kids to act like this, I’m sure not going to put up with this in them, especially after all we’ve done for them.”

But there’s the rub. An expectation that since we’ve given so much, we should now receive so much in return? Were we told that in our adoption classes? Is that how the real world turns?

What if we have no expectations? What if we just face each day reminding ourselves that we chose to adopt older children and all their baggage?

Growing up as one of four kids to a two parent family in the 1950s I never once thanked my mother for cooking supper or buying me new shoes. I expected her to do this, it was her job.

So where would I get off if I expected my older adopted children to appreciate the sacrifices I’d made for them? Why should I expect what I never did as a child?

So I think I’ll continue, fuming at times to be honest, but overall simply expecting that each of my children will someday find their gifts and their passions after they heal from their earlier trauma.

I know that I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing with exactly the children that I have; the same ones who punch in walls and rage down halls, the ones who disrupt every family activity, and the ones who make me proud. This is the life I’m supposed to be living and I also hope and pray that I can help others understand that this seems to be a fairly normal component in the adoption of older children. At the very least, it’s a common refrain sung by many adoptive parents.

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