Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

That is what it seems like for M. One day I can't get over how far she has come. How she has just grown and blossomed from that scrawny baby with the funny shaped head that we brought home a year and a half ago. But then we have mornings like this one.
K and A are transfer students to a neighboring school (our home district is a terrible school system, long story, whole nuther post). To drive them all the way to school is a twenty minute drive. Luckily, the school has agreed to pick up its transfer students from this area at a mid-way point. Thus, we only drive ten minutes. But, only if we are there at 7:20. I try to leave the house at 7:00, just to be safe. We don't always have time to have a sit down breakfast, and it is pop-tarts or granola bars in the car. Now, I'm really a penny pincher, and I don't like to buy a lot of these type of prepackaged (read $$$$) things. I'm more of a cinnamon toast, pumpkin muffins, egg omelets, kinda gall. At first, I would give everyone these "breakfasts in a bag," but it really grated on my miserliness, because people, that is half a box or more for ONE breakfast. When we get back home from the bus stop the little ones would want a second breakfast of whatever I was fixing for DH and Me, anyway. And also, the little ones were spilling quite a bit of $$$$, I mean, breakfast, in the van. M isn't even really hungry that early in the morning and half the time would just play with the bag until the contents were mush. So, the last five or six times A and K have had to eat (and I mean had to, because they would much rather have the breakfasts I fix), I have carefully explained our time constraints, I have assured M that she will be fed as soon as we return and then given the prepackaged things to A and K. Whereupon she has begun to yell. That child can sho nuf yell. I hate the sound. I've hated it since the first night in Moscow, when I was certain someone was going to call the Russian police and DH and I would be sent to a gulag somewhere in Siberia. Because if you heard this yell, you would think we we were murdering her. Not telling her, "wait 15 minutes for breakfast." We have never (not one single, solitary time) given in to her tantrums. Even that very first night. Let the secret police come, I will not yield. Didn't someone once say that consistency is the key to effective discipline? Well, they never met M, that is certain.
Last Friday, I was doing the mail run and DH was running the morning show. Same scenario. He laid down the law as only Daddy can lay it down for throwing the tantrum. So, I was like, "Great! Maybe she has gotten the breakfast bar message." But here we are on Tuesday, out of time, and it's 7:05. Preparations for homemade pancakes are laid out beside the griddle. I show them to M. I say, "Look! We are going to have yummy pancakes when we get back from the bus stop!" Then I give the last two granola bars to K and A. She puts her hand out. Oh, please tell me we are not going here again?! "No, M, you will have breakfast when we get back." We are! "WWWWWAAAAAAAAAAA." The siren yell. Did I mention it was loud? And it is not high pitched like you might expect of a two year old. No, it is rather deep--think baritone, not soprano. And it is LOUD. GRRRRRR! Why can she not get this? I pop her bottom and tell her she better stop that yelling speedy quick. At this point, she decides she will add a little drama to this morning's tantrum by throwing herself back onto the hard wood floor. Rolling and thrashing and flopping around like a dying fish. She hasn't put on a performance like this in several months. I know from experience that she has reached her Point Of No Return. So, I'm down on the floor with her in a full nelson, holding her mouth shut (she is still yelling), and she is kicking and foaming at the mouth. You might thing I put that last part in to add color and interest to my description. People don't actually foam at the mouth, do they? I tell you they do. There was foam coming out of my child's mouth. Not the first time. Probably won't be the last.
After about two minutes of this, it always seems like two hours, she suddenly stops. Hiccups. Takes a shuddering breath, and her whole body goes limp. I wait for about three more breaths, and release her. She stands up and goes to the door, ready to start her day. She sails through the rest of the morning as Miss Mary Sunshine. I, on the other hand, am left in a much darker place, emotionally and physically spent, wondering.
Why does she do this? Is it the orphanage? Is it the heroin? Is it just the tooty side to an otherwise wonderful little personality? When will she really be over it for good?
I thought I had mastered trust when we were going through the adoption. You know, "Everything I Needed to Know About Trust I Learned in My Russian Adoption." OK, Lord, you can definitely mark "trust" off Your list, because I believe I'm done here. Ha! Guess He's not. He's not finished with me or her yet. That's a good thing. But it ain't easy. No, it sure ain't easy.