Mean

It's never fun when you pick your children up from school and notice another kid making direct eye contact with you as he walks towards you with a purpose. I know immediately what's going on.

He's coming to tell me something that my kid did. He's coming to get my kid in trouble.

I know this kid. He's in a class with my 2nd grader. Last year they were frenemies, but this year he talks about this kid positively so I thought that maybe their relationship had improved. I was wrong.

The kid proceeds to tell me about something annoying and rude my kid did a few weeks ago (he's been holding onto this for 3 weeks, waiting for his opportunity). He had no other motivation than to tattle on my child, because the issue had already been resolved. He wanted me to know that my child was annoying him. He wanted to make it clear that they were not friends. And while I believed the story he told me, it made me sad for my son.

I knew this day would come.

Rocky and I have been talking about our child for almost a year now. His differences. His delays. His disabilities. We knew that in time, the gap between he and his peers would widen and he might be rejected. We suspected, to a degree, that kids would not understand him, find it hard to relate to him, be bothered by him and his immaturity. We thought it might happen soon.

I still wasn't prepared for his confession.

"I just want to play with them, but no one wants to be my friend!"

And his tears flowed as I hugged him and kissed his forehead.

Kids can be mean, I said.

Why do you think they don't want to be your friend?

What kinds of things do they say to you?

My thoughts were confirmed: They find him annoying and mean.

The mean part threw me for a loop until he explained. Sometimes, to get back at them for excluding him, he tattles on them to get them in trouble. Sometimes he lies and blames them for things they didn't do. He wants them to hurt like he hurts, only he can't articulate that. Not yet.

And my heart breaks for him.

Because he truly does not get it. He's so oblivious. He sees kids playing and he doesn't understand how there isn't room for one more. Even if I could explain it to him, tell him what's going on, he wouldn't be able to understand it in a way that would help him fix things. He will hear my words, and he will nod his head, but it will go nowhere. He can't change. At least not yet.

My son looks normal.

He's tall, likes to play sports and draw, has tons of energy and loves to be a good helper. He is friendly, shouting "hi" to people that he knows across the street. He is thoughtful and empathic. He remembers if you said you've been sick and when it's his turn to say grace at dinnertime, he prays for you. My son has disabilities you cannot see.

While it's easy to remain hopeful while he is so young, I would be lying if I said that we did not lay awake at night wondering what kind of life he might lead with his limitations. What that will mean for him and his desire to become a husband and father. We hope and pray that he will end up high-functioning, happy and healthy. Of course, in dark moments, we fear the worst.

As a parent, the hope part is so important. Without it, the day-to-day struggles will swallow you whole. The setbacks will make you so frustrated, so sad, so tired, that you will need the hope to get you through another day. And my son needs that hope, too. All of humanity needs that hope.

And prayer.

Lots and lots of prayer.

Carry Me

One of the biggest challenges of being a foster/adoptive parent is the overwhelming feeling of unpreparedness at parenting a child with such high needs. Daily, I am confronted with the effects of trauma and neglect that my children experienced in their first few years under their family's care. Some days I ask myself what has been worse for my kids in those formative years- The trauma? The abuse? The neglect? Or is it just the perfect storm of circumstances that led to such profound effects on such young brains and psyches that they can't quite function in a normal way?

For me, I have two kids that encountered most of the same experiences as one another, and yet they were impacted in completely different ways. My oldest became hardened, less likely to trust, wary of giving and receiving love, suspicious, enamored with the bad guy and thug life. His brother was much more effected, because not only did he have the same experiences, but he was also exposed to trauma and neglect even before he was born, leaving irreparable damage to his fragile, developing brain. Parenting this child leaves me feeling exhausted, hopeless and frustrated a lot of the time.

Nothing can prepare you for parenting a child with special (or high) needs, especially a child who is not biologically your own. This isn't because you don't love the child as if they were your own, it's because the "not your own" adds a whole emotional and psychological aspect to the relationship that creates a distance and an expectation that wouldn't be there had the child been birthed from your own body. This isn't right or wrong; it just is.

Daily, I scratch my head at his choices. Become frustrated at his mistakes. Became angry with his lying, stealing, cheating and destroying. Daily, I become convinced I am not the best parent for him. Regularly, I question my decision to foster-adopt. Hourly, I ask myself how I can do this until I die, because God knows that parenting does not expire. Sometimes I feel trapped and I cry.

For the last 24 hours this child has had a stomach bug and has been throwing up every 3 hours. He has yet to make it in the toilet. I've cleaned vomit off of carpet, doorways, bathroom floors and walls, toilets, trashcans, and bedding. I have seen him vulnerable and naked, covered in all of his stomach's contents, crying because he was missing school. I have listened to him continually ask for food, even though he can't even keep down water. I have heard him ask if his daddy will read the Bible to him before bed. And I have comforted him as best as I can while also trying to avoid contact because I still have three other kids I have to take care of and mama can't get sick.

Today I read a blog post written about a mom whose son has autism. She posted with great candor how she struggles to connect with her son. Her biological son. She confessed how she doesn't often understand him, becomes frustrated by his behavior, angry at his inability or unwillingness to follow directions, and how she feels hopeless and sad when she thinks about her son. It felt like I was reading about myself. And it provided some comfort because if she's feeling that way about the son that she carried in her own womb, than maybe I could feel less guilt about my own feelings towards my foster son and his disabilities. Maybe I could give myself a break and admit that this is really, really hard and it probably will that way for a long time.

Let me just say, that for imperfect moms like me, I am so, so grateful for all the brave voices paving the way online and in the real world for us to be honest about how it really feels sometimes to be a mom. Without those vices, and without the community of the women that I have come so desperately to depend on, I would be in a much darker place as a mom when it comes to parenting  and loving my son.

Everyone says that these years go by so fast, and that's mostly true. But some days, in the trenches with kids with so much baggage, it's so hard to look ahead and see light. It's so hard to imagine that this too shall pass. With every minute, every day, every prayer, all I can do is the best I can and trust that the One who created us all will carry me through when my best is simply not enough.

Fearless

"I wish the adoption wasn't going through."

I had finally said the words aloud, and with them a torrent of tears that felt like tiny weights being lifted off my weary body.

I had been carrying with me so much guilt, so much heartache, so much sadness for my children. I have wished for a different outcome, one where my boys wouldn't be separated from their mother forever. I had prayed, questioning God why this happened. Why were my kids getting adopted, but some of their siblings going home? How cruel. How unfair. How utterly devastating for my babies.

I've held my children as they've cried for their mother, for missing her and for hating her. I've looked into their eyes as they've questioned why they weren't enough to make her better. I've listened to them brag in denial that someday they would go home. When they're a teenager. Or a grown-up. I've had to tell them hard truths, truths like "You're right, it isn't fair," and "No, you will never get to go home. You will never get to live with mommy again."

The weight of it all, stored up in every mommy fiber of my body, has been enough for me to beg the Creator to let the adoption fall through. Let them go home. Let them not have to live with this brokenness for the rest of their lives. Let me not have to look into those brown pools of sadness for as long as I live. Let us not have to worry, and fret, and question every decision we make for them.

Will this make them hate us?

Will this make them hate God?

Is this good for them?

Did we do the right thing?

Is it all worth it?

The answers allude me.

All I know is that I love them so much that I wish I could let them go. I wish I could rewind the clock and tell the judge, no, we don't want to adopt them. A lie, absolutely. But maybe they could have a chance to go home? To what life, I don't know. I don't even know if going home would be an option. But the constant heartache I feel for them, for their mom, for every stupid, unfair thing they have experienced, is enough to break me. And some days it does.

And then I gather myself, take a look around at my family, and resolve to keep going, never knowing the answer to why. Never knowing, not yet, if they can overcome this. If we can overcome this. It doesn't seem possible. It feels dark and endless. And I am forced to face my fears. And my only option is to look at the light. To look at the Son. And just keep going.

The Climb

This is a post about confessions.

Our church's women's ministry is about to launch it's pilot gathering, a teaching event on grace. Before I even typed those words I wanted to cringe, not only because I'm the worst at grace, but because grace often feels like an oft talked-about discipline, yet impossible to attain. At least for me, it does.

I know what the Bible says grace is.

I can list some examples of what grace looks like.

I have certainly shown and received grace in my lifetime.

But still, grace feels impossible.

Especially as a parent.

You know what I can tell you without-a-doubt about grace? I suck at it. Specifically, I'm awful at showing grace to my big kids. I am better at modeling obedience than I am at modeling forgiveness. I'd rather teach them about good behavior than about Jesus and His gift of grace. I'd rather see them grow into productive members of society than train them to be men passionate about the Gospel and God's people.

All of this pains me to write because it's true.

I value human qualities over holy ones.

And that leads me to this. Confessions. Ugly truths. Painful admissions.

These are the hard lessons I have learned (and continue to learn) about myself since becoming a parent to my oldest sons:

I over-value "normal.""Normal" is such a taboo word anymore, and considered very unacceptable when it comes to describing people these days. Normal to me always meant like or similar or typical or like everyone else. I didn't realize how much I valued this quality, normalcy, until I was an adult and realized how much of my life hadn't been what I perceived as normal (whatever that means anymore). When I envisioned having kids, through adoption or otherwise, I pictured "normal" kids. Typical kids. Kids that look, act, talk, and walk just like every other kid. I never pictured, or considered, that I would have children with trauma histories so powerful that it would be impossible for them to be like all the other kids who had had "normal" childhoods. I never thought I'd have to raise kids one way while healing them of another. It's not something I wanted. I still wish I had "normal" kids everyday, because then our lives would be easier. Wishing away my kids' pasts takes away from who they are. It removes God from the beginning of their lives and diminishes their value and worth. Seeing them as a set of qualities, as opposed to individuals made in God's image makes it harder for me to show them compassion and more difficult for them to heal.

I over-value intelligence. This is something I have always known to be true: Smart is better than dumb. It's also an American quality (despite the growing idiocy and uneducation of our culture) that has been preached and modeled to us since we were born. Intelligence is a highly-valued quality in our culture, and it's one I have put much stock in as an adult. There is nothing that agitates me more than ignorance and outright stupidity (This should be my red flag right here. I care more about intelligence than kindness. Ouch.) God knew this would be a problem in my life, and thus decided it would be good for my refinement to give me a child with intellectual disabilities. This has, by far, been the most difficult challenge of my parenting life. Having a child who is not neuro-typical is a daily struggle for all of us. This reality shows me the ugliness of my heart daily. It makes me resentful and annoyed with my child. I have to remind myself, sometimes minute-by-minute, that my child's disabilities are NOT his fault. He is not forgetting out of laziness, not making bad choices out of rebellion, not unlearning what we've taught him on purpose. His diagnoses are real, documented and confirmed by doctors, and he will need extra help for the rest of his life. It is my job as his mom to be his greatest cheerleader and advocate, not someone who tries to make him smarter than he's capable of being. It's my job to engrain in him his value and importance exactly as he is, not as I wish he were.

I over-value good behavior. I am, by nature, a rule-follower. I am big on justice, doing what is right, and being a benefit rather than a liability (unless it comes to following the speed limit, and then I'm a major rule-breaking hypocrite). I see value in order and honesty and contribution. I hate when people break rules or get away with lying and cheating. I can't stand when people profit from dishonesty or from hurting others. It upsets me when people do whatever they want without regard for everyone else. And yet, this pretty much describes all kids. I have a hard time with this because I recall being a "good" kid. Kept my room clean, mostly told the truth, helped out others, didn't intentionally hurt people, followed the rules, got good grades, etc. My mom tells me all the time, "You were not a normal kid. You were so good. You shouldn't expect that from your kids." The problem is that I do. I expect my kids to be just like me when I was their age. I expect them to not break everything they touch, not play dangerous games that they know will result in someone getting hurt, not talk back and use bad language, not lie and cheat and steal and every other bad thing kids (people) can do. I expect them to be perfect. And then I think, What are you, an idiot? How can kids coming from their background ever be as "good" as you expect them to be? And this is the problem. My expectations for them are wayyyyyy too high, not because of what they come from, but because they're kids. And kids do all of the things I didn't, but thankfully, that my husband did. I need to recognize that my behavior as a child was not typical and that it was probably rooted in my own childhood trauma. I need to acknowledge that what I view as bad behavior in my kids is typical behavior for their mental and emotional ages. I need to stop feeling like I need to apologize for them and let them be kids (safely, of course). I need to stop using words like "good" and "bad."

I over-value peace and quiet. I do not love my kids' curiosity. They ask so many questions, most of which are rhetorical or nonsensical or just plain unimportant in the moment, and I find myself constantly shushing them or waving them off. I think, Why do my kids have to talk sooooo much? Though I am a very social introvert I am easily and constantly exhausted by all the words that come out of my kids' mouths. I hope and long for the day when they want to talk to me less and find me boring and embarrassing. I longingly remember the days before they came to live with us, when I could curl up with a book and a cup of coffee and not be talked at for hours. I miss having silence on demand. I value all of these things more than the minds and thoughts of my growing kids.  I forget that no one listened to them before and certainly did not care about what they had to say. The reason they talk so much to me is because they feel like I listen and I care. This should matter to me more than peace and quiet. Their hearts should matter more to me than my comfort.

As I prepare to listen and learn about grace from some of the women leaders in my church, I have to reflect on these hard truths about myself and honestly make a change in how I relate to and parent my boys. I have to value them more than I value myself. This means I have to value Christ more than I value myself.

I will never be able to show the kind of grace to my kids that they deserve if I do not understand or appreciate the grace that only Jesus can and has given. And this is what seems unattainable. How will I ever comprehend grace? How will I ever be able to emulate and model it for my kids? It feels like an impossible charge, much like parenting some days.

But then I think about God, and I think about us all as His kids and how frustrating and exhausting and challenging and ungrateful and disobedient and unkind we all are. And I think, well if He can still love us and reward us and die for us, then the least I can do is look the other way when my kids do something ridiculous. The least I can do is love them anyway.

One Step Closer

Today as been borderline unbearable. My kids' annoying qualities have reached a fever pitch as we survive the last few days of summer before school starts back up next Tuesday. Owen's cold, combined with his full-fledged toddler mania, has made the last few days miserable. Little sleep, lots of whining, TONS of destruction around the house. Nothing appeases him. It's been miserable for the both of us. And the awful third-trimester symptoms are at an all-time high: acid-reflux, leg cramps, shortness of breath, forgetfulness and loss of reflexes. I have dropped so many things today. I am on my own last nerve.

Life has been hard for me recently.

Adding to that heaviness is the anxiety of knowing I will have a newborn in 7 weeks jpoiging the mix of what feels like an already crazy house; certainly a house not prepared to welcome him. I have a torn-up bathroom upstairs. Boxes everywhere. Unfinished minor house projects. Deep-cleaning that needs to happen. I feel completely ill-prepared. A "What was I thinking?" kind of sinking feeling. Why did I think I could add another baby? With no help? No family nearby?

I must be crazy.

I guess there are worse things to be.

I know this season will pass. I'm already amazed when I look back at pictures from a year ago and see how tiny Owen was. Now he's just a regular ol' toddler terrorist. And some moments I have a hard time remembering that sweet little cherub that smiled no matter what. It must be hard to be him, too. It must be so frustrating to not be able to communicate exactly what you want and how you feel. I sympathize with him, but it sure has made things hard the last few days. He just gets so upset so quickly.

And so do I.

Sigh.

I need a break.

Ho Hey

It has been a year since we went to court and a judge terminated the parental rights of our kids' birth parents. A whole year has passed and they are still not legally adopted. Failures across the board by the court system, our foster agency and the State of Illinois as a whole have further delayed closure and permanence for our children.

I always see these pictures on Facebook of these bright-eyed, grinning children holding some Pinterest-worthy chalkboard sign exclaiming that after so many (hundreds of) days in foster care they are finally adopted. The numbers written vary but they are almost always close to 1,000. It is heartbreaking to think that these kids, my kids, have spent so much time, so many years in limbo waiting for a bureaucracy to grant them the security of belonging to a family forever. It's frustrating as a parent to have to constantly tell my kids that I don't know when they will be adopted. It's unfair and cruel that they should have no legal parents for more than a year now.

We retained an adoption attorney soon after the termination hearing, but her hands are tied. She cannot push up the timeline because her sole job is to wait on our foster agency and the State to get their acts together and submit subsidy paperwork to her so that we can set a court date. It's all a very lengthy and convoluted process, especially when dealing with agencies affected by high turnover rates and a lack of a State budget. Because of this, we truly have no idea when the adoption could be finalized.

In the meantime, we try our best to live like the boys are ours. Life goes on for us as usual, except for the inconvenience of monthly home visits from the caseworker, spotty sibling visitation with their biological siblings (also wards of the state), and foster licensing visits every 6 months. We still have to get permission to travel out-of-state (even if it's just across the border into Indiana or Wisconsin for lunch!), and are completely reliant on a broken system of agencies to make sure our kids' needs are being met and rights are being honored. It's exhausting and truly annoying.

"Here, take care of these kids. They're yours, but not really. Not legally. Not yet. Someday."

A year ago, when this court decision happened, we were heartbroken for our children and their mom. We grieved the permanent loss they now know of never again being able to live with and be a part of the family unit into which they were born. We are still sad for our children and their siblings. We are not not sad for their mother, but we've had more confirmations than we can count that this was absolutely the best outcome for our boys and their little sisters. As devastating as this is and will continue to be for our kids, we are hopeful that with continued regular therapy and the stability and support they have gained in our family and within our community of friends and neighbors, they will heal and one day thrive.

We had wanted so much, and still do, to keep the boys connected to their mother. As time has gone on, she has pulled back, cancelled visits, stopped calling, and made excuse after excuse as to why. Why she's late. Why she can't make it. Why she hasn't called. Our kids have been disappointed, rejected, betrayed and hurt repeatedly by her lack of involvement, and truly, what they see as lack of interest in them or their lives. When she finally does show up via text message or random visitation with their siblings they are overjoyed, but guarded. My middle child is like a forever-forgiving puppy dog. It doesn't matter what someone does to him; He forgives and forgets. My oldest, on the other hand, doesn't get too close, and I have to force him to say goodbye to his mom when the visit is over. When she calls (once in a blue moon), he has to think of superficial things to talk about because he's too afraid to say the things he really wants to say, the things that keep him up at night and cause his heart to break over and over when he thinks about them. He can't be vulnerable with her. He can't be himself. He knows he will probably never get the answers he deserves. And so at the tender age of 8, he puts on a mask and tells her about the new Legos he just got or the movie he watched or the sport he played in the backyard.

He can't ask her why she doesn't call him or visit.

He can't tell her how hurt he is by her failures.

He can't ask her why she made the choices she did that resulted in him being placed into foster care.

He can't tell her that he has nightmares about her dying or abandoning him.

He has to keep all of these things to himself, sharing (some of) them only with his therapist and us, whom he trusts. He knows we will comfort him and provide the only answer we can a lot of the time: I don't know.

I don't know why she doesn't call or ask to see you.

I don't know why she makes choices that hurt you.

I don't know why she tried too late to make changes that could have kept you as hers.

I don't know why she doesn't seem sad when you see her.

These are hard questions that even an adult would have a hard time articulating, would be afraid to ask someone who's hurt them. It's not fair that my child has these questions rattling around in his head and heart. I understand that the finalization of the adoption will not take these questions away. I know it won't fill the hole in his heart that could only ever be filled by her, but won't. I know it won't offer him relief and peace, making him forget everything he's gone through.

But, it will give him security. He can never again be taken away, removed or abandoned by parents entrusted to care for and love him.

It will give him hope for a future that would not have been possible had a judge not made the hard, painful, brave decision to terminate rights.

It will give him comfort to know that he doesn't have to pretend with us; that we love him no matter what and will be here for him in the good times and bad.

That's all we want. We just want them to know that we're theirs and they're ours, forever.

That's all we're asking for.

That's all we're waiting for.

Not subsidies, not court dates, not formalities.

Just acknowledgment.

We are a family.

And they don't have to worry anymore.

Summertime

Summer around here has been hot and humid. Steamy, even. It's felt a lot like living on the East coast, making it somewhat unbearable for this pregnant lady to spend any amount of extended time outside.

I feel bad for my kiddos...summer is winding down (only one month left until school starts back up) and we've only gone to the pool once and one kid has gone to the beach once with grandma. Otherwise they've been playing their leap pads, riding bikes, shooting water guns and watching movies. It doesn't sound that bad actually, but mommy guilt is palpable and I feel bad for not giving them any fun summer experiences. My hail mary is the weekend trip we have planned for the end of the month near Notre Dame in Indiana. We rented an Airbnb with a pool and situated on the river so we should get plenty of outdoor fun before the summer ends.

Pregnancy the second time around has been strange. For some reason I thought it would feel the same as it did with Owen. Magical, momentous, awe-inspiring. Not that it's not those things, but certainly not the way it was the first time. I find myself so busy with the kids and still all-consumed by Owen that I can't really give this pregnancy the same kind of focus and attention that I had before. Again, mommy guilt.

I was hoping to be more fit this time around. Unfortunately, though I am more active, it seems that pregnancy just likes me with more weight. I will never be one of those "all belly" ladies with skinny arms, thighs and face all the while with a beach ball belly. I will expand everywhere, like I did with Owen, and eventually, I will work to lose the weight.

We have decided that this is our last baby. My last pregnancy. The last time I will grow life within my body and feel the soft flutter, and then strong jolt of baby kicks inside my tummy. The last time I would have waited expectantly for that plus sign to appear, then grinned with excitement at the thought of telling Rocky that we're going to have a baby. The last time I had a chance to bear a biological daughter.

We've decided it's time to close this door, though we still haven't decided on the when. I'd like to be hormone-free before making that permanent decision.

But we feel comfortable with our choice.

It feels right.

Four boys feels like enough.

I don't even grieve the daughter I never had.

At least not yet.

It's a foreign concept to me anyway.

This endless summer has not been nearly as bad as I anticipated it to be. Between kids staggered at camp and summer school there hasn't been too much time for nonstop bickering. The kids are still at each other's throats more-so than not, but it's manageable. When I need to separate them, I do. They're getting better at handling consequences than they used to. Less tears and, "but I didn't..." and more quiet, if not angry, acceptance that they were wrong. It's progress.

I am just feeling so tired and a bit lethargic right now. Part of it is the pregnancy (hello, third trimester!). Part of it is that Owen has never been a good sleeper and still wakes up a few times a night, which means I do, too. Part of it is summer and the overwhelming heat and humidity of some days. Part of it is living in a city with constant noise pollution and no privacy whatsoever. Part of it is sheer exhaustion of raising kids with so many issues and needs that are not typical of other kids their ages. Part of it is (sniffle) getting older and needing more rest but still being in a season in my life where I'm having babies and chasing toddlers.

It's a season I'm looking forward to moving out of. I'd like to eventually get back to myself a little bit, and my marriage (which let me just say I am so grateful for! I have such a wonderful partner in Rocky. He makes marriage easy).

But right now, as the big kids head off to bed, I just want to put my slightly swollen feet up, eat an unhealthy snack, snuggle my toddler for as long as he'll let me, and watch some gratuitous tv.

Mommy guilt doesn't win all the time.