White Flag

If parenting kids with a trauma history has taught me anything, it's that there is no magic timeline or formula for healing.

Week after week, I find myself asking their therapist, "They've been with us 2 and a half years. When will this behavior stop? When will they feel safe enough to stop doing this (that, everything...)?" And her answer is always the same, "Maybe soon, maybe a year from now, maybe never."

Never.

There's that word again.

I hate that word. It's so devoid of hope.

Sometimes things are so good here, so normal, that I allow myself to believe they are healed. Complete. Whole.

And then something happens to remind me of the possibility of never. And I want to give up. I want to withhold grace and raise expectations and demand change.

Only traumatized brains don't respond to any of that.

Sometimes I find myself thinking, "Other kids have been through far worse than mine. Why can't they get over some of this?"

My suck-it-up military upbringing doesn't help matters. Neither does Rocky's. The military and exposure to the military way doesn't exactly breed patience and compassion. I grew up with a wonderful, but no-nonsense father. "Life isn't perfect, get over it." That kind of thing. And honestly, for my personality type, that was helpful. It helped me to adjust my expectations and depend more on myself and not wallow when things went south (..unfortunately, I eventually took it too far and had to come back from the land of self-reliance and indifference). But this kind of thinking, this "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of thinking, is not only not helpful with my kids, but it's like a foreign language to them. Their brains literally cannot process it.

So what's a mom to do when they keep making the same bad decision over and over again, despite all consequences and threats of consequences? What gets through to them?

I wish I knew.

That's where I sit most days.

Complete ignorance.

There is no formula.

Their brains don't absorb and process information the same way that a non-traumatized brain does. They simply can't sort it all out and make sense of it. Which makes some days feel like I am literally talking to brick walls.

It's frustrating.

And exhausting.

And humbling.

I often yell. Or worse, give up and stop caring (for a time).

I lose hope.

I distance myself.

This is too hard, I tell myself. I can't do this forever.

Only that's what parenthood is. Forever.

And kids will push you. And disappoint. And frustrate. And drive you completely insane. And that's part of the job description, isn't it?

We are currently sitting in a season of great growth and potential. Our big boys have accomplished things academically that we were told wouldn't be likely for years. They are building peer relationships. They are learning to trust adults entrusted with looking out for them. They are (more often than not) thinking before they act and making better decisions.

But sometimes, there's a setback. A setback that takes you back two years and you're hit in the stomach and your anger and disappointment wells up inside of you and you feel like never. This is never going to change.

It's that's when the therapist, my friends (and hubby) remind me of how far the boys have come. How much better they're doing. How this thing and that instance and yesterday are all examples of how much they love and trust us and are trying so hard to get well.

And then I'm reminded of what a jerk I am.

How impatient, and demanding, and not compassionate I really am.

Here I am expecting my children to improve beyond recognition after 2.5 years, and here I sit, still so easily irked, so easily bothered, so easily angered. I'd like to think I've improved, too, but I'm not so sure.

I don't know how to not want more for them.

I don't know how to trust God that He is doing everything He can to make them better.

I don't know how to believe that never won't happen.

But I'm trying.

I'm really trying.

Everybody Wants to Rule the World

It's been more than two whole months since my last post.

Haven't felt much like writing.

Part of that is life's busyness. The other part is fatigue and nausea from this fresh pregnancy.

The remaining reason is probably due to tough seasons and hard feelings.

It's hard when someone you trust critiques your parenting and says something hurtful. It really cuts to the bone. (Let me state on behalf of all moms everywhere that it's RARELY okay to judge another mom's parenting style. Unless you have raised this person's actual children or Jesus himself- (1) you don't know what you're talking about, and (3) it will not be received well, so just don't.)

Anyway...a lot has prevented me from writing, or wanting to write. Sometimes the inspiration just isn't there. And sometimes the timing just isn't right.

Things have slowed down recently. Visitors have come and gone. Owen's first birthday celebration has passed. Our household has mostly healed from various ailments. First trimester symptoms have lessened. I'm back in a writing state-of-mind. Kind of.

I've noticed a funny phenomenon over the last few years since we became parents to our big boys. The interesting thing is that it seems to apply to family, friends and strangers alike. When people meet our family and find out our boys came to us through the foster care system they automatically assume two things: Rocky and I am saints who have rescued these boys, and my children need extra of everything (love, attention, food, allowances, chances, etc.) because they must have lacked so much before they came to live with us. While I can understand these sentiments, let me state very clearly THEY ARE NOT TRUE.

Rocky and I did not choose foster care because we wanted to rescue poor, sad, neglected and abused children. We do this because we take absolutely seriously God's command to care for the orphan and we believe wholeheartedly in reconciliation through Christ. All things are possible, right? We were not trying to build our family through foster care. We were not intending on "keeping" and raising someone else's children forever. We did not plan on our first placement resulting in the termination of parental rights and adoption. We are not do-gooders who set out to change the world through fostering. We felt a call, saw the need, had the means, and obeyed. It's that simple.

Do we love our kids? Absolutely! We could not walk this road if we didn't. Everything, and I mean everything, we do we do is for our children (even when it seems strict or mean).

Are we thankful that we get to adopt them? Of course! While reconciliation and reunification with their birth family was our #1 hope and prayer, we are grateful that when that possibility slipped away we were here to catch them where they fell.

But we are not saints. We are no heroes. We make lots of mistakes. We are normal parents.

I think the assumption that hurts us, and our children, the most is the one that assumes our children need to be spoiled rotten and be exempt from consequences because they are poor foster kids. They've had a hard life. They need to know they're loved and they'll know that through an abundance of food, gifts, hugs, kisses, and grace. Lots of grace.

Listen, I hear you. I know why someone might be tempted to think this way. It's a very nice, kind, Jesus-like way of thinking. And we all need grace (always).

But let me be completely real here.

Most people who think this way have no idea what they are talking about and are completely wrong.

I know that sounds harsh. I know that sounds mean.

I'm okay with being the mean mom.

Because you know what? This mean mom loves her kids so much that she will not overlook it when they break the rules (repeatedly), will not let them get away with lying and stealing, will not tell them it's okay when they put their hands on each other or another kid in anger, will not allow them to make the rules in our home, will not sit idly by while all the things I've been pouring into them over the last two plus years are disregarded and shrugged off in a I'll-do-what-I-want attitude.

I won't.

And that's exactly what they need from me.

They need me to be consistent. Consistency means I will not act out of emotion, but instead will parent fairly.

They need to know that I can't be swayed. My steadfastness means that no matter what they do, good or bad, I love them because they're my children and I'm their mom and there's nothing they can do to change my love for them.

They need to know that there are consequences to every action. This will teach them to think before they act, and to make better choices next time, building a skill they will need the rest of their life in every circumstance and relationship.

They need to know that they cannot be disrespectful to adults. Because allowing disrespect will mean that everything they've witnessed prior to coming into our home was ok. And that is a lie.

There are so many things my children need to be successful, kind, forgiving, loving, confident adults someday.

And this does not include dessert every night.

My kids have a lot of issues. They've experienced trauma, and neglect and witnessed things they should never have had to. I know their issues. Rocky knows their issues. Those closest to us know their issues.

They need a lot of help. We need help as a family. Help with consistency, boundaries, love. And while I appreciate those who love the boys wanting to "spoil" them to show them just how loved they are, this should never include questioning our parenting, doubting our love for our children, or undermining the goals and best interest of our family.

We have received tons of wonderful, unconditional support from family and friends over the course of this journey, and I know that will only continue as the boys grow and really find their footing in our family.

So my one and only request is this: If you see us struggling, offer a hug, a word of encouragement, and prayers.

Isn't that more valuable than anything else, anyway?

Every Rose Has It's Thorn

Do you ever find that you have seasons of loving better? When you're your best self (or close to it) and you find that the overflow of that is full of patience, grace, understanding, compassion, and joy?

I desperately want this.

Lately I have been feeling exhausted. Owen has become very clingy as he's entered the separation anxiety stage. You never know when he will cry when I try to pass him off to someone else. Whereas I used to be able to put him down on the ground with some toys so that I could get stuff done, now he cries the moment his bottom touches the floor and then crawls after me, crying and whining, "Mama, mama, mama." I have to admit it's heartbreaking. But it's also tiring. But I know, too, that he won't be this little forever, and so I am soaking it up, holding him and comforting him as much as he needs.

We've entered the homestudy phase of the adoption process. It begins with us completing the online adoption training geared towards understanding attachment, post-adoption behaviors, our rights, what to expect from the kids, and basically how to parent children that legally yours but not completely emotionally yours, but ones you've been entrusted to care for for a lifetime nonetheless. It's a huge honor and privilege, but it is also terrifying. Just going through some of the material today online I was struck at how truly ill-prepared we really are to take this journey.

But can we ever be prepared for this?

You would think that after 2+ years of caring for, loving, encouraging, disciplining, raising, and living life with these kids would give me some confidence in how to  move forward in the next leg of our lives together. But honestly, I feel like I am back at square one. It is one thing to agree to adopt, and even want to adopt because you love your kids. It's another thing to consider all of the ramifications and what that looks like for all of us for the rest of our lives.

For example, questions like how much contact will they have with their birth family once the adoption is finalized?

And how will we honor their race, culture and heritage as an interracial adoptive family?

And what will holidays and birthdays look like going forward? Will we have two separate events, one for our family and one for theirs? Or will we do a combined event?

And finally, how will we meet all of their needs when so often we are not the ones they want?

Whenever someone asks me what it's like to be a foster parent I tell them that it is hard and messy. I am not one to gloss over or glorify something that is difficult. Sure, there are rewards and I love the boys as if they were my own flesh and blood, but I would be lying if I didn't say the truth about what it really feels like on a daily basis.

A lot of times, it feels like unrequited love.

Others, it feels like a battle; a civil war.

Sometimes, it feels like we are trying to survive inside a psych ward.

And yet there are days, too, when it just feels like family. Like we have always been together.

Those days are our saving grace and reminder as to why we do this.

But most days, the mundane, emotionally-difficult, behaviorally-challenged, hurtful days are more often than not. This training reminds me that those days will continue to occur once the adoption is finalized...some things never change; they just become more manageable and less frequent.

That's not the point, though.

The point is that I, we, GET to love these boys and raise them as our own in spite of our sin, regardless of our abilities, in the face of every obstacle we've encountered along the way: We get to be their mom and dad forever.

Forever.

There's that word again.

Heavy.

Real.

Permanent.

Someday soon, they will be ours, and that will begin a whole new process of learning, forgiving, grieving, rejecting, accepting, rejoicing.

And I'm the lucky one, because through it all, I still get to hug and kiss them goodnight.

Through it all, I get to be their forever mom.

Your Love Never Fails

I have many fears about raising black sons. It doesn't take much to understand this fear: just watch the news. But I'm not there yet. I'm not scared of that...yet.

I'm scared I will fail them because I'm white. That I won't "get it" enough. That I won't be able to offer them the things they need, things of racial and cultural importance, that only a mom of their own race could offer them. I am afraid that they are being short-changed of a life experience that I simply cannot offer.

There are two other white foster families within blocks of us also raising black children. All throughout the city, probably the entire U.S., black children in the foster care system are being placed with and loved by white families. For many reasons. There could be volumes written about why this is; Maybe we have the homes, the means, the education, the security, privilege, etc.. It could be because there are more white foster families than other races (I truly don't know). It could be because the races of foster children are predominantly African American (surely in our city this is the case), and so the odds make sense. Whatever the reason, here we sit, responsible for stewarding these precious lives all the while completely ignorant of all that they need.

That's a big responsibility. And it's important to me.

It makes me think about the story of Moses. How he was forced, by circumstances beyond his control, to live among foreigners. How God, in His infinite mercy, allowed Moses' mother to continue to nurse and influence him, despite that fact that he lived with a much wealthier, well-educated, privileged people. How he benefitted from his Egyptian upbringing, but still deeply loved his people and felt a responsibility to them. How one day, God used him to rescue his people from oppression.

I think about how if God could do that for Moses and the Israelites, then surely he can do that for my boys and their family, their people. Maybe God is allowing my children to thrive and prosper in an environment that would not have been possible had they remained with their own people so that one day they can use their upbringing to influence, shape and heal their family, thus forever altering future generations. I think about how important it is that I instill in them a love for their family, their culture, their history, their race, so that like Moses, they grow up with a deep love and compassion for their people, for equality, fairness and justice.

My oldest regularly asks me, as if to remind himself, "Mom, you said God can change anybody, right? Maybe he can change [my dad]."

And it's my job to say,"Yes, son. God can change anyone. And He has. Time and again He has changed the hearts of millions of people who love Him. And He will never stop."

It's a reminder I need myself.

He never stops.

Even when we lose interest. Turn away. Say it's too hard. Miss the point. Fail.

He never gives up.

And so, too, I will never give up trying to be the best mom I can be for these kids who deserve more than this world can give them. Like my Father in Heaven, I won't stop. Even when they say they don't want to live here. Even when they remind me they have a "real" mom. Even when they say they miss their absentee dad. Even when they hate us.

I won't stop.

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?