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I saw Abbie come downstairs, and knew it was time for me to go up. She flicked me a two finger wave as Rafe and I stepped through the glass doors into the tiled area between kitchen and den. Rafe's hand on my waist was comforting. We held hands as we made it to the bottom of the stairs. The kids were all waiting for us at the landing.

Rein had his blankie, and was sucking his thumb. Virgil's hair was slicked back after shower, and his eyes were solemn, ready for the reassurances of routine. And Felicity was---- systematically kicking the wall, and then smashing her plush doll against it. What I was most surprised about was that Virgil wasn't being a tattle tale.

"Felicity!" Rafe decided he would be the one to address it. I didn't need to warn him about grief cycles, we'd both been in counseling for it, and were up on the current theories of adopted kids' lashing out. Felicity had a nightly routine as well, and part of it included kicking things. It was probably why Virgil hadn't bothered to tattle.

She did stop at his voice. She probably had not stopped for Abbie, and that was the cause for the tears. She and Abbie had gotten into it. The fact that Abbie wasn't there defending herself meant that whatever Felicity told us was fine.

"Did you take a bath, baby?" Rafe turned her stiff and unyielding form, and she kicked him, her face enraged, unable to stop kicking and crying. I told the boys to come on down and we'd read a story while Rafe dealt with Felicity. This was pretty common.

"Abbie made me put away my picture!" Felicity sobbed at full capacity.

We all knew the picture in question was the one of her parents I'd framed for her the first day we were together. It showed Gomez and Ariana, at a party, at a banquet table, probably at their wedding. He isn't looking at the camera, but he looks relaxed. She is staring straight at the camera with a winsome and lovely smile. It was Felicity's greatest treasure. I could hear Rafe murmuring to her.

"I want my momma and my papa! Take me to them, now! I want momma!" This was part of the four-year-old grieving process. Possibly she is too young to actually reason with--- her cognitive and developing language skills are too immature to handle the concept of death. The fact that initially, right after the attacks, those who tried to take care of her were too grief-stricken themselves to properly console her--- and then she'd been taken away, given to Ariana's American parents in New York, who rejected her, did not make any attempt to speak her language, and did not get her counseling. Even the cousin in Connecticut had not spoken her language, and as smart as Felicity is, this was total and complete and devastating isolation. She was separated from her parents, not understanding, bewildered and confused, and possibly irreparably damaged.

Fortunately for us, Rafe and I both spoke Spanish. We'd also taken adoptive parenting classes, and grief counseling ourselves for the losses we'd sustained. We knew that in order for "mourning" to occur "in the true psychoanalytic sense of detaching memories and hopes" from the dead person, you have to have a concept of death. Felicity never has. She believes her parents are still in Mexico. Oh, yes, sometimes she says she knows she won't see them again, and that they are dead. We go to the cemetery where Jake is buried every week and bring flowers and talk about it. And we've gone to the cemetery where Anglee is, and also Rafe's best friend Troy. We try and explain, over and over, whatever it takes to get her to relate. We talk about the Plan of Salvation all the time, every day, in every way we can think to insert it into conversation. But it is slow going. She is very stubborn, and very caught in the grief cycles. She vacillates between denial and anger daily. This is to be expected. Hopefully, it will not last longer than a year. Grief depression lasting over a year can be a sign of a mental break.

We knew going into this adoption that Felicity's chances of developing some kind of severe depression from her traumatic experiences and isolation, and her incomplete mourning, were great. In medical journals it is a controversial subject whether a healthy resolution can be achieved in Felicity's case without serious intervention.

Rafe is ultimately successful each and every time in calming her down. He never tires of holding her, walking her, rocking her, murmuring to her, over and over how much momma and papa love her from heaven, and how they watch over her. He is very sweetly concise in this aspect of their relationship, and she associates him with a liaison between them and her, since he was with her rather exclusively the day they were killed. My hope, and the hope of her counselors, was that she was learning to form an attachment bond with Rafe and me--- but Rafe for sure---

They joined us, she-- sobbing quietly on his shoulder, her fingers in her mouth, her doll dangling from her other hand. I kept reading Dr. Seuss's Lorax, one of their favorites. Rafe didn't set her down, didn't even suggest that she listen, or participate. It would take time, and she was his only focus.

We finished the story and then moved by habit to our backless ergonomic chairs with colorful padded seats and knee rests. These were very popular with the kids and only used during this time of day. Another of those routine things we'd been encouraged to establish. We kept them in a closet right off the den. The boys pulled theirs out, and then Virgil went back for Rafe's and mine, but deliberately left Felicity's in the closet. I saw her eyes watching his movements--- coming out of her tantrum.

A few seconds later she wiggled to get down, get her chair and join in. The pull of this routine was too strong, and boy, was I gratified to realize it. Don't ever stop a good routine.

Now we sang songs. The itsy-bitsy spider, Frère Jacques, The wheels on the bus, and There was a tiny Turtle. The kids could choose, and round and round we went with our favorites. We got up for Ring around the Rosies (traditional version!) and London Bridge is Falling down. Rafe and I were not worried like we'd heard from Jeff's ex-Rhonda, about the explicit "real" meanings of those nursery rhymes. We'd grown up with them and had sweet memories of them, and wanted to pass them down, along with Peel the Banana, and the Wishy-washy Washer Woman.

Rafe usually directed the singing--- as in--- goof around time then transition into Popcorn Popping on the Apricot tree, and Rain is falling all around, in preparation for I am a Child of God, and I love to see the Temple, Give, said the little stream, and We are different. These are songs we took out of the Primary Children's songbook and we were systematically going through the whole thing. The Family song, we sang right before prayers. If the kids were still riled up from the goofy songs, we might sing a few more settle down songs, like A Child's Prayer, or Love is Spoken here. Either way, by the time Rafe said the prayer that night, they were pretty settled.

But Rafe wasn't done tonight. He said that while we'd been praying, he had an impression that he should give each one of his children a Father's blessing for comfort and protection. This wasn't extremely unusual, but Rein was falling asleep on his chair.

Rafe shrugged and went first to this little guy, laid his hands on his head and gave him a sweet and short Father's Blessing, asking God to keep him safe and sound, help him grieve his losses, understand how much we loved him, etc. He went around to each one of them, and finally me. Because he did it somewhat often--- like maybe once a week--- whenever the inspiration hit him, it didn't take that long and the kids were in tune with it. As usual, my eyes filled with tears and I had to discreetly wipe them so as not to alarm the kids. They, however, usually looked up to see if I was discreetly wiping tears, and for some reason, knowing my happy tears were just that, comforted them. They knew mom's got emotional.

And then because I was not allowed on the stairs anymore, Rafe now tucked them in and I kissed them down here. I felt the pang of even this tiny loss, and wanted more than anything to go up with them, but they knew, and so did I, that the "doctor" had explicitly said no more stairs. So, I was being obedient.

And for the most part, that--- my friends--- was our day.

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