Free to Be Me

We have officially entered normalcy.

The kids are back in school, Rocky is mostly healed up and back working up a storm, and Owen and I have found a rhythm that works, but one that leaves us with enough wiggle room for whatever the day brings. There is nothing I have loved more than the freedom to say "no" to the dishes, and "yes" to an impromptu playdate.

Last year in January I wrote about my word for the year: Open.

I can say without hesitation that last year was the most easy-going and open as I have ever been. I found that having a baby while simultaneously starting an adoption process while your husband starts his own business will kind of force you to go with the flow. And I liked being more flexible. More in-the-moment. More ready and at peace for whatever happened.

A permanent change has absolutely occurred within me because of last year.

This year, I debated about whether or not I would choose a word. After all, does it really matter? Did my word last year actually motivate me to act in a way I might not have otherwise?

I think it did.

I remember consciously telling myself to be open when I felt my instinct to close in, protect, preserve.

I am not a risk-taker by any stretch of the imagination. I like routine, dependability, schedules, monotony, even. Looking back now after having gone through so much therapy with and for my kids, I realized that I found comfort in routine and security in the monotonous because my world as a child felt so out-of-control that I created my own stability. Since then, living that way has always made me feel safe. It took moving to Chicago for God to began to chip away at that way of thinking. I found that I didn't want to feel protective of my ways or inflexible about life. I came to hate that I would get so hung up on things that I let bother me so much. I was sad that spontaneity felt threatening.

And so little by little, I let go. I pushed myself past the point of comfort. I started hushing the voice that would tell me to turn in, keep it inside, don't be vulnerable, don't risk. And in 2015, I really feel that this voice was permanently silenced. I truly did allow myself to be open.

And so, I've given some thought to what this year's word should be. What is my next step? What is still burdening me that I need to throw off? What needs to change? What should my attitude and perspective be this year?

And all I hear is free.

Free.

That is the word I have chosen.

Free to be me.

Free to enjoy myself.

Free to indulge in things that nourish me.

Free to say yes and no, without guilt.

Free to spend my time the way I want to.

Free to love the people in my life the way they need to be loved.

Free to serve God in the way He's gifted me and asked of me.

Of course, free is easier said than done.

Free is a hard word for me because I live under a shroud of self-imposed guilt, as I image most moms do. Everyday my thoughts are a jumbled heap of questions like:

Did I spend enough time playing with my kids? 

Did I love my husband well?

Did I do something for myself, for my health and well-being?

Did I acknowledge God, like at all?

Did I love my neighbor?

Did I encourage and pray for a friend?

The guilt comes from the fact that the answer to all of these questions is usually a resounding NO. I pretty much fail at all of these things. For every one instance I get right, there's at least two that I get wrong. The weight of the guilt I feel about this is overwhelming. Suffocating. Unbearable. Most days I just try to dust myself off and try again, but without the grace I never afford myself, because for me to feel that grace, I need to be free to receive it.

Quite the predicament I find myself in.

So in 2016, I'm going to try to free myself from my own demands and just let myself be. Like chill out. Relax. I'm going to try to go to bed every night with no run-throughs, no questions, no guilt, no regrets. I'm going to try to be free, so that God can use me to share the grace that I so desperately need myself.

Free sounds nice, doesn't it?

Couldn't we all do with a little more of free?

A Change Will Do You Good

It's 2016.

I feel like I am just now getting my bearings back from last year.

2015 was a doozy.

I don't want to go as far as to say, "good riddance," but I am grateful that 2015 is behind us. It was a hard year. A great year, but a hard year. The hardest of my life. Even though there was so much to be thankful for, I feel like for every wonderful thing that happened, something terrible happened, too.

Owen was born (making it the best year ever), but my body was banged up and it took me 3 months to heal as opposed to 6 weeks. I'm still not completely back to normal.

The boys became eligible for adoption, and we've since started the process, but that means their parents' rights were terminated. Forever. They will never again live with blood family. And this has created chaos in our home as our children struggle to process this reality.

We flew to California as a family of 5 and got to see nearly every member of our families. The people we love the most got to meet all three of our boys. But we left feeling homesick, confused, and wondering where exactly God wants us to be.

My mom moved to Chicago and lives with us now. It's amazing. She's a huge help and we laugh all day. A lot. But that means that her marriage has truly ended, and so while we're happy she's here, it's for a heartbreaking reason; one I wish wasn't so.

2015 was one big paradox.

And so, I am thankful the year is over. While giving birth to Owen and watching him grow has been the most amazing experience of my life, I can't hold onto that forever, suspended in time. And the rest of 2015 (outside of our vacation to California with all of our family in August) was just plain tough, on us and a lot of people we love. Divorce, cancer, infidelity, job loss, financial woes...It seems like across the board, it was an incredibly challenging year for so many.

I am looking forward to this year. Blank slates, new possibilities, every opportunity waiting to be discovered.

I'm excited to reconnect with my husband now that Owen is becoming more independent and I don't feel the overwhelming need (and desire) to be with him at all times.

I'm excited to see how my big boys mature, learn, and grow emotionally, academically and physically (we're working on spiritually, too, but they need to feel safe and secure before they can even fathom all this craziness that we believe and devote our lives to).

I'm excited to see who Owen turns into as he nears toddlerhood; what his voice will be like, the things he'll say, the foods he'll love and hate. He will turn one and I am already brainstorming birthday party ideas. For a one-year old. (I never thought I would be THAT mom, but gosh, this kid...)

I'm excited to reconnect with my girlfriends after being sucked into the whirlwind that is babyhood and adoption processes. I miss just being Nicole. Not wife, not mom, not daughter. Just me. With my friends. And wine.

I'm excited to get back to myself. Spend time taking care of myself. Eating better. Working out. Feeling good and looking good.

I'm excited for summer! The best season in Chicago!!! I can't wait for barbecues, and concerts in the park, and al fresco dining and going to the beach. Crossing my fingers I can maybe get a tan on this pasty Irish skin.

I'm excited for everything the future holds.

I know things are almost never easy. I've learned (quickly!) that the more people you love, the more complicated things get. I'm sure my positivity might wane in the coming months when things get hard, again (because that's life sometimes).

But right now, today, in this moment, I am excited.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

Before I became a parent, I always envisioned how the holidays would be once we had children. We'd decorate the Christmas tree together, bake cookies, sing carols, curl up under a blanket and read Santa stories...All the things I always wanted to do when I was a kid. Once I had kids of my own, I would finally be able to do all of this, and more, with them. It would be like all of the Christmas songs on the radio; merry, bright, jolly, beautiful.

We would be a family.

Only the holidays haven't been that way at all.

The holidays are a reminder every year to my children that they're celebrating, once again, without their family.

And that usually means we get treated like garbage.

Not all the time...but more than I expected we would.

Kids in general can be ungrateful, and unappreciative, and really just brats. All kids. (I know mine are not alone in this behavior).

But this year has been extra hard. With the boys finding out about the adoption, there's been a whole slew of regressive behaviors. And I've been blown off, laughed at, ignored, lied to, and straight-up dismissed by two littles boys that still call me, "Mom."

It doesn't scream, "Merry Christmas."

And yet Christmas is still here, around the corner, and I'm forced to reconcile our reality with all the things I love(d) about the season.

It's difficult to get into the holiday spirit when your kids are always acting up or being mean.

It's hard to find motivation to shop for kids who are pushing your boundaries and pushing you away.

It's a challenge to muster up the energy to participate in seasonal activities, like baking cookies and putting up Christmas decorations, when your kids constantly destroy things, a lot of the times on purpose.

I know the right answers. I know the psychobabble. I know that they're struggling to carry the weight of never. I know I should be a living example of grace and mercy and charity, especially towards my children, who are victims in so many ways.

But part of me just feels disappointed that this is our family experience.

That this might always be how it is around the holidays.

That once October rolls around, what used to be my favorite time of year is now just a trigger for my sons. A glaring reminder in a season of hope of their very own hope lost. And a little bit of my old hopes lost, too.

I'm having to find a new way to celebrate the season. I'm having to readjust my expectations of what Christmas will feel like every year. I'm having to catch myself from becoming resentful. I'm having to remind myself what the season is truly about: Rescue for the weary.

And aren't we all just that? Weary.

I'm tired.

So tired.

And my kids are tired, too. I know they are. Outright exhausted from the truth.

And so our Christmases may not be like the songs on the radio. We may not have a holly, jolly Christmas. Halfway through they might be going through the motions of opening gifts while holding back tears. When they're done they might ask to call their mom. And of course we'll oblige.

Whatever they need.

But it's hard to not be what they need. To not be enough.

It's hard to want to give them so much of the things I wanted as a child, to always be partially rejected. Half-empty. Not quite what they asked for. A gift they would return in an instant if it were possible.

I don't know that that will ever get easier.

And yet I know that their mom would trade places with me in the blink of an eye.

Because I get their every days. I get their mornings and their evenings, their laughs and their tears, their hugs and their kisses. I get more of them, in so many ways, then she does. And those ways will never overlap as long as they're children. She will always have their hearts; and I will always have their bodies. And that will have to be enough for me right now.

As we celebrate our third Christmas together, we will bake the cookies, and string the lights, and read the stories and watch the movies and sing the songs, and we will be a family. But we will be fractured, too. We might be hurting. It may be sad. They may turn away, for the hundredth time.

But at the end of the day, in this season of advent, we will continue to hope. Hope in a future that feels a little bit easier, a but more fair, more kind, for our children, and for ourselves.

What is Christmas without hope, anyway?

Sticks and Stones

I've always been the kind of person who appreciated knowing exactly where I stood. I never liked guessing about the level of my friendships or how I was viewed by others. The gray area always made me uncomfortable.

Did you like me or not? Are we acquaintances? Casual friends? Good friends? Besties? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Partners?

Being a foster parent was easy for the first 6 months. Not because it was easy, but because I knew my place. I was the foster mom. The stand-in until the boys could go home. I would love them, and comfort them, and pray with them and tell them how very special they were while I advocated for reunification. I prayed for their parents' healing. I wished, and hoped, and crossed my fingers that the boys could one day go home.

But then in April 2013, that dream was dashed. The goal changed from reunification to termination of parental rights, and I was thrust into a world where I no longer knew my place.

I was still a foster mom.

I was still a stand-in.

But I was also now a pre-adoptive mom.

A future permanent mom.

Only, their mom didn't go away.

She was still around.

We shared this title: Mom.

And it became painful, and hard, and awkward, and sad, and hurtful, and confusing.

This past week we sat down with the boys and their therapist to tell them that their parents' rights had been terminated, their appeals lost, and that we would be adopting them. They would be ours forever. They would be Stones.

And emotional chaos ensued.

Anger. Sadness. Denial. A host of "it's not fair"s.

Rejection.

Defeat.

Disbelief.

Our kids were crushed. Not because they don't love us, but because forever and never are big words. Final words.

They would never live with their mom.

They would forever live with us.

Imagine being 6 and 8 (and emotionally, quite a bit younger than that) and being told that you will never again share a home with your mother and siblings. The realization was made harder by the fact that there is still a real possibility that 4 of their siblings may return home at some point if mom continues to make good progress. She may in fact get half of her children back. But the other half? My boys and their little sisters up the street? Never. She will never get them back. She will never be their only mom.

And my heart breaks for her, too. Yes, my children are complete victims and have done nothing to deserve this lot in life, but I'm confident in saying that their mom didn't have much of a chance herself. I don't know that this would have played out differently even if we weren't in the picture. And this is the best case scenario for the boys.

But best never equaled easy.

This week has been filled with poor behavior and hurtful words as the kids have struggled to carry the impossible burden of never. I have been tested, boundaries have been pushed, I have failed to show grace and compassion. I have yelled and disciplined. I have fallen short, and I have crawled back and asked forgiveness from my kids. I have held them as they cried, rocked them as they just couldn't find the words to say, held their hands as they struggled to comprehend the never.

And thus it will always be so.

I will always exist in the gray area with them.

I will never just be their mom.

I will hold a number of other titles and roles in their lives.

Adoptive mom.

Other mom.

Mom who made it impossible for their mom to "win."

Mom who took them away from their family.

It will never be easy again.

And I will have to live with my own never.

I will never be their only mom.

We will never be a family, just us.

I will never be able to take away their pain and make them complete.

Only Jesus.

Only Jesus.

Fly Away

My mom always tells me how wonderful it is that I'm a mom at a time when, more than ever, moms can say how they really feel about being a mom. All the hard, raw, ugly truth. It's safe, especially when you have a tight-knit group of mom friends to commiserate with.

I remember 15 years ago when my cousin had her first baby and she said something to the effect of, "When you're a mother you suffer in silence," which is basically saying that you might be miserable but it's not about you anymore so shut your mouth, put on a happy face, and make your child's life worthwhile. And I thought, "Yeah, that sounds about right."

How wrong was I?!

Do you know what would happen if we suffered in silence? Pretty much all the things that happened to so many mothers in the 50s and 60s. Depression. Addiction. Abandonment. Suicide.

Being a mother is absolutely amazing. But it is not all bliss. There are some very real, very deep valleys, and when you're in one, the last thing you want to do is remain silent. Instinctually, if you were alone in a deep, dark place, would you not call out for help? Would you not seek a higher vantage point?

I read a blog post today from a funny mommy blogger (which is a thing now, another outlet for moms to vent and laugh at all the nuances of being a parent), and she wrote, "Mothers have a deeper need for emotional and physical space than anyone else, and yet we are the ones who are least likely to manage to make that happen for ourselves." Did you see that? We have the greatest need, yet we are least likely to have that need met.

Being a mother is not a burden, but it is burdensome. It is something I chose with my whole heart and I have never once regretted. I love so much about it. But the hard stuff? I don't think anyone can say they enjoy the hard stuff. Calls from your kid's school because they got in trouble...again. Sitting in yet another parent-teacher meeting because your kid just can't keep up and needs a revised IEP. Cleaning up bodily fluids from surfaces they most definitely should not be on. Calling your husband in tears because your children have flooded the kitchen. Spending hard-earned money to replace one broken thing after another. Worrying about your kids' futures, the choices they will make, the people they will be.

Why would I want to be silent about any of this?

And also, it's clear why moms need a break.

Regularly, we are all together and yet the kids still defer to me for everything. I can be in another room, with Rocky right next to them, and they will still call out for me to help them, get them something, answer a question...Mommy is the word.

I am not one of those people who loves to be needed.

Before I had kids I was a big believer in personal space. Alone time. Hardcore introverting.

These things are unheard of once you have kids.

And I would not trade my kids- hear me! Not for one second does my desire for personal space trump my desire to be a mom, but...

Sometimes we need a break, man!

Sometimes the incessant, "Mommy?" and never-ending laundry and mountains of dishes and constantly pickup up everyone. else's. crap. warrants a break.

Even people in solitary confinement get an hour outside each day.

Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, I asked Rocky if I could go to Target alone. I needed a break. I ended up having (choosing) to take the baby because he had to work from home, but I was alone enough, I guess. I took my time, browsed the aisles, spent wayyyyy more than I had planned, but I came to the (re)realization that I needed this break at least once a week. I came home and declared that Thursday nights would be mine. After dinner, I would take a few hours to myself, outside of the house, to be alone doing something that didn't involve (1) shopping for needed household items like toilet paper or (2) anything related to the kids, unless I so chose.

That was two weeks ago.

I haven't have alone time since.

Sometimes even just the thought of a long, uninterrupted shower is enough to make me swoon.

You know what the most ridiculous thing is, though? It's even hard for me to enjoy this mythical alone time, because I'm constantly thinking about, or missing, Owen.

That baby.

Gah.

I just hate being away from him for long periods of time. He might be my only baby (another way my mommy-mind manipulates me from taking care of me) and so I don't want to miss out on him. And then I worry that he's not being played with and engaged if I leave him (mommy guilt and daddy blame). And then I stress that he might be hungry (breast is best, after all...right?)

You see? Not only can I not get away, but the thought of getting away from Owen gives me anxiety.

So what does that mean?

W(h)ine and cheese nights with other moms?

Strolling through Target, baby in tow, just for a change of scenery? ($$$$$)

Short, infrequent, one-hour breaks because that time amount limits all the guilt and anxiety listed above?

What would I even do with myself if I could take a break once a week? I'm pretty sure I don't have any hobbies...

What do moms do when they're not momming?

You'll have to ask me months from now, when I've finally put Owen down and stopped kissing him a million times a day. Otherwise, I'm pretty certain my "breaks" will include him.

Pale September

My body didn't "bounce back" the way they made it sound like it would if you chose to breastfeed. I also wasn't one of the lucky ones who got a reprieve from a period while breastfeeding. My old jeans don't fit. It's not so much the remaining baby weight I'm still carrying, but my body has changed. Things have shifted, widened, sagged. It's a difficult thing to look at a beautiful 6 month old baby and then look down and wonder when you will be back to normal.

Today I put my maternity jeans back on.

I haven't been this comfortable in months.

I remember all those months we tried to conceive, with no success, and being so disappointed in my body. Even now, with my miracle staring back at me, I am still disappointed in my body because it didn't shrink back up the way I thought it would; The way I wanted it to.

But this body is amazing.

This body nurtured and carried my son as he grew, healthy, in my womb. It still does that.

This body labored for hours to bring him into this world, and then labored again through months of recovery from the trauma of childbirth.

This body feeds him all the nutrients he needs to thrive, carries him up and down stairs, bathes him, plays with him, takes him for walks, holds him up in the air while he giggles and squeals.

This body has been faithful and strong and reliable.

This body still makes my husband do a double-take, even with all the new lumps and divets and stretched skin. He still loves him and tells me I'm beautiful.

It's hard to see that myself. It's hard to look at what my body has done, created, and judge it so harshly. I would like to just put on something warm and comfortable, light a pumpkin-scented candle, sip hot tea and drown in the wonder of my baby all day without feeling self-conscious about my belly. I don't want to miss anything about this time by being too focussed on a number on the scale.

It's autumn here. The beginning of my favorite time of year. Today Owen and I are in matching gray and white sweaters. The leaves have started to change colors and the breeze that blows is no longer refreshing, but crisp and cool and makes you wish a warm beverage was permaglued to your hand. If Spring is new life then Fall is the last burst of energy before inevitable death, before the long hibernation of winter. Every time the cool breeze blows I want to close my eyes, breathe it in, feeling the warm sun on my face as I savor the last hurrah of life, of color.

I'm thankful for this time of year more than any other, I think, because I'm reminded of all that has happened in such a short amount of time. Every time the seasons change, and winter looms, I'm reminded of all the life that has been lived when it was warm enough to open the windows. This is the time of year that family gathers, celebrations and thanks are offered, new friendships are forged and old friendships are deepened. I find myself seeking out Jesus more in the quiet of this season than any other during the year.

In a season where it's dangerous to want more things, spend more money, do more activities, I want to want more grace, spend more time, do more praying. I want to love my neighbors, serve my family, give thanks to God. I want to be grateful.

I want to look at myself in the mirror and not see the baby weight, but the weight of the baby and everything he's brought to this family. I want to believe in miracles because I've experienced one. I want to love this body no matter what shape, size, or condition.

And so I will wear these maternity jeans without shame until I can find a pair that make me feel comfortable, and I will light that candle, and share my Jesus with Owen while we sit by the window and watch the cool breeze blow the leaves off the trees. And at the end of the day, what's better than that anyway?

ABC

It's that time of year again. Time to "fall back." Time for sharpened pencils and clean uniforms and quietly contained hopes and dreams for the new year. Time for it to be a little harder to get out of bed in the morning because it's still so dark outside and the covers are still so enticing. (Snuggling next to a sweet baby does not help in the motivation department.)

I loved back-to-school time when I was a kid. The new clothes, the fresh school supplies, and colorful backpacks and trapper keepers and folders. I had missed my friends all summer long because we didn't have instant communication allowed by cell phones and social media to keep in touch day in and day out. I eagerly anticipated finding out who my teacher would be and who would be in my class. And, let's be honest, I loved school. I was a "good kid" and school was easy for me. I enjoyed learning and words of affirmation from my teachers and parents kept my love tank full.

One of the hardest parts about parenting my boys is how different they are from me (which has nothing to do with biology, or lack thereof) and also how hard learning is for them (which has a lot to do with their circumstances, and perhaps biology.) While many parents around the country are thrilled to have their children back in school (hello, freedom!), for our household, the school year can be a stressful time.

One of our kids does pretty well with transition. He can be thrown into a new environment and make friends quickly. He has a sweet, helpful disposition, and despite his limitations, can function well in a brand new classroom with a new teacher. If it wasn't for some of his delays, you would never know he came from a neglectful environment. He can blend in and make do.

Our other kid, though, struggles with "new." He still refers often to his kindergarten teacher (who was horrible, by the way) and tells me he misses his first-grade teacher. He says he is excited to go back to school, but I also know he's worried about the new teacher, new classroom, new kids, new routine. You see, it takes this kid months, if not years to warm up to you and trust you. When he's in a new environment, and he's feeling insecure or out of control, his default behavior is to act out, disobey, defy, or shut down. Sometimes this kid gets sent to the principal's office. These behaviors happened a handful of times last year (which was a HUGE improvement over the year before), and so I'm always on pins and needles when the new school year begins. I can feel his anxiety.

I read a blog post today written by an adoptive mom. She talked about her kids' attachment issues and how they can translate into problem at school. She shared how she often "briefs" her kids' teachers in the beginning of the year so that they can be aware of her sons' special needs. (You can read the post here: http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2015/09/how-to-talk-to-teachers-about-adoption.html) One of the commenters on this post mentioned an article related to classroom instruction for traumatized kids. In particular, how traumatized kids respond to traditional discipline (to correct behavior), and what they need instead: relationship. The author wrote,

"When the teacher says to a non-traumatized child, 'Andy, can you please settle down and quietly have a seat?' Andy has the internal regulatory ability to respond appropriately to his teacher because trauma has not interrupted his developmental maturation of developing self-regulation tools and feeling like he is safe in the world. However, when Billy (the traumatized child) is asked the same question, his response is much different. He takes the long way around the classroom to his seat, he continues to not only talk but projects his voice across the room as if he is still out in the playground, and once seated continues to squirm and wiggle. (Yes, I have actually witnessed this behavior. It has also been reported to me by my sons' teachers.)

Traditionally, we have interpreted Billy as a disruptive child, pasted the label ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) onto him, and reprimanded him for his “naughty” behavior. What we have failed to see is that Billy cannot settle down on his own. His internal system has not experienced the appropriate patterning to know how to be well behaved like his classmate Andy and Billy does not know he is safe in this world, even if he is now in a safe environment." (We are learning a lot about this from our son's therapist.)

The author goes on to state, "The most effective way to change these patterns comes through safe, nurturing, attuned, and strong human connection. For the student in the classroom, it comes through the teacher-student relationship. The reality is, for our traumatized children to learn and achieve academically, science is showing that they must be engaged at the relational level prior to any academic learning." (I have found this to be 100% true for our oldest child. He simply will not be able to learn effectively, and manage his behavior without feeling like he can trust his teacher and believe that he/she truly cares for him.)

All this to say, I am struggling with the same thing the original blogger wrote about. Should I share some of his background with his new teacher in advance (at the risk of causing him or her to "notice" things they might not have), or do I wait until a situation occurs (because it will) to have this conversation? (I don't carry the same fears for my middle son because he will be getting his older brother's teacher from last year whom we adore and who "gets it" when it comes to our boys.) 

I'm torn between wanting to see how my kid will do on his own in the new environment, a little older, a little more secure in himself, a little more trusting in the good intentions of people, and wanting to protect him from unfair judgments and labels. I'm caught between wanting to acknowledge his growth and success in controlling his body and making good choices, and still admit that he struggles with making friends, fitting in, respecting others and following directions.

Sometimes it's hard to separate normal kid behavior from trauma-related responses. I would imagine it's even harder for adults (like their teachers) who don't know them or where they're coming from.

Which brings me back to my original dilemma. Should I share some things in advance with his teacher or not? (Teacher friends, your input here would be extremely appreciated!)

I know that no matter what, for the first year since we've had them, the kids are both genuinely happy to be going back to school. They're starting to love all the things about it that I did when I was their age. We've got all our supplies organized, backpacks stuffed, uniforms washed and folded...All we need now are a good night's sleep and prayers.

I know they will learn. I know they will grow. I know they will make mistakes and get back up and try again. I know that everyday is a new day and they know that, too. I know that my mama fears are echoed throughout the world and that we all just want the very best for our kiddos. I know that when Tuesday morning rolls around, and I become the parent of a 2nd grader, 1st grader, and almost 6 month old I will be the luckiest mama in the world and that everything will be just fine.

I also know I will probably have to mop my floor because, inevitably, someone would've spilled their drink at breakfast.

C'est la vie.