Oceans

Having pregnancy hormones while simultaneously dealing with major regressive behavioral issues with one of my kids makes me want to scream and cry into a pillow.

Also, my 15-month old has started throwing epic tantrums where he screams, throws himself on the floor, throws things and hits me.

Good times.

I'm exhausted. I feel a bit hopeless regarding one of my kids.

Unprepared, beaten-up, angry, resentful, tired.

It's hard to explain to outsiders what it's like to live with a child whose medical diagnosis, psychological diagnosis, and trauma history combine to form the perfect storm of emotional and behavioral junk on a daily basis. Visitors and extended family see such a small snapshot of our lives, and oftentimes, kids modify their behavior for such occasions. I am so thankful for our community who lives life with us and sees everyday what we go through. I'm definitely not looking for sympathy, but understanding is such an appreciated support. I am so, so grateful for understanding, kind words, respite, and encouragement.

Even if I've said it a million times, I will say it again: If we didn't love these kids I would give up.

That's how hard it is.

And the reality is, it could be this way for a really long time.

I have realized (again) that I am not very good at self-care. And when I'm not good at making time for myself (which sometimes is literally impossible to do), my sanity suffers, and in turn, my children suffer because I lack patience, and grace, and understanding, and compassion, and all the things they need to heal and grow. I know I am in serious trouble when I dread seeing or interacting with one or more of my kids.

And I'm in a season of big trouble right now.

One of my children needs what feels like too much from me, and I feel adrift on a sea of never-ending sacrifice.

Rocky is so busy working to provide for our family and he's doing an amazing job at that while also trying to be as present as possible with me and the kids, but there isn't a lot of time on the schedule for him to relieve me. My mom is out of town for the next few weeks, and honestly, I hate burdening her with regularly watching the kids anyway, so I don't even take advantage of her help when she's here. My friends have tons going on, and lives of their own and medical issues and jobs and family stuff and they can't be available or expected to regularly take my kids off my hands so that I can breathe for a few hours (although they offer, ALL THE TIME because they're amazing friends.)

I am not overwhelmed by the number of children I have.

I am not overwhelmed at being a parent.

I am overwhelmed with caring for and raising a child that has life-long issues that I was not ready for nor wanting to deal with.

This is exponentially harder when the child is coming out of foster care and going through adoption.

Lots of emotions. Lots of anger. Lots of questions. Lots of big feelings and an inability to manage and verbalize them.

It's hard to constantly feel like you're in a position of having to give your all to one child who is a bottomless pit of need, when you have two other children (soon three!) who also need you.

It's difficult to feel like I need to defend and protect my other children from one child's actions, bad decisions, and mistakes.

Most don't understand how severe his issues are when compared to a "neuro-typical" child (as we're supposed to call them). I won't list all his issues here for the world to read; that's not fair. Those closest to us know what they are. It's the whole "need-to-know" list of people. But trust me when I say that his issues are many, they're real, they're debilitating to him some days, and they're exhausting and frustrating to us everyday.

And I'm just trying to get through the day with more patience and grace than the day before.

I'm trying to understand that I can't ask him, "Why?" because he simply does not understand that question and doesn't know the answer to "why?"

I'm trying to push my expectations for him and his future aside and accept him as he is, limitations and all.

I'm trying to be honest with my village and my husband about my mental and emotional health so that they can encourage and pray for me.

I'm trying to put myself in his shoes (this is so, so hard for me to do) so that I can grow in compassion for his struggles.

I'm trying to find a way to make more time for me, and my marriage, so that I can recharge and refocus and get cared for myself.

It's all so very hard for me sometimes because I'm here in the trenches everyday and I don't want to complain all the time and I certainly don't want to greet my husband after a long day's work with griping. There's a fine line for me between being honest and vulnerable and being negative. That line has grown finer the last few weeks, and I've crossed into the negative more time than I'd like to admit.

The truth of the matter is is that I didn't sign up for this challenge and so I find myself walking through the stages of grief.

What are they again? Oh yeah, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

I think I'm in the anger stage right now.

I was probably in the denial stage for the first two years we had the boys. Denial of the depth of their wounds and the lasting impact it would have on them.

I'm angry at the boys' birth mother for damaging them so severely. For leaving one of my children with a disability of which he cannot overcome and will struggle with for the rest of his life.

I'm angry at my child (I know his disability is not his fault) for knowing the right choice and still making the wrong one, sometimes defiantly and deliberately to hurt others because he himself is hurting and he's unable to cope appropriately.

I'm angry at the loss of milestones and achievements that my child will not experience with his peers because he is considerably younger mentally and emotionally than his age and height would allow you to believe.

I'm angry at myself for being angry. For being disappointed in him so much. For wanting him to be different.

That's the hard truth of where I'm at. And I know I'm not alone in this...I have a small community of other foster parents that are in their own grief stage, knowing that the life they wanted for their child and their family will look much different from what they had hoped. And it's hard when you know it's not going to get easier, at least not soon and maybe not ever. That's a hard pill to swallow. I'm trying to swallow it, allow it to sink into my bones and become a part of me so that I can let go of what isn't and make a plan for gracefully handling what is.

One thing is for sure.

I need help.

I need prayers.

I need Jesus.

There is no other way.

Summertime

Summer is around the corner. Nearly 12 long weeks of sunshine, playing outdoors, swimming at pools and beaches, going to parks, and doing lots of arguing, inevitably.

My boys fight like Jack Lemon and Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men, only not nearly as subtly prankish banter. More like the knock-down, drag-out scene where they fight like boys, rolling around on the cold ground of the ice fishing village.

So. Much. Fighting.

And arguing.

And tattling.

And just general annoying behavior befitting three year olds as opposed to kids that are 7.5 and 8.5, respectively.

Such is the reality of trauma.

Reminding myself daily that I do not really have a 7.5 and 8.5 year old is hard work. They're more like 4 and 5 emotionally, 5 and 7 developmentally (on a good day). On a bad day they can range anywhere from infantile to 8.

See, kids without a trauma history have bad days, too. They might have a tantrum, regress a bit in behavior, act of of character. But for kids with a trauma history, who's brains have literally been wired incorrectly because of their environment and exposures, bad days look very different. They look like Mad Max: Fury Road. Fast. Chaotic. Violent. Relentless. Bad days mean attacking others but also self-sabotaging. They mean not being able to self-regulate and certainly not allowing themselves to feel safe or loved. And honestly, on those days, they aren't very lovable, which makes it even harder.

This family makeup of ours is strange. God knew what He was doing, absolutely. But some days, it is incredibly difficult to watch my one-year old exhibit better behavior than my big kids. It's frustrating to have to repeat myself over and over and over again, only to have it forgotten or ignored. It's exhausting to to have a child with special needs, although no fault of his own, who requires so much more attention, affection and affirmation than my toddler.

I have to constantly, minute-by-minute some days, remind myself of the positives. Remind myself of the truth.

They have grown considerably in the last 2.5 years.

Their speech was literally unintelligible when they came to us at 4 and 6. Now they speak clearly and have learned excellent manners.

Tantrums used to be the only way they could express their heavy feelings. Now they use their words and they understand their feelings (most days).

My oldest used to resent me- Now he calls me mom, tells me he loves me and asks me for hugs and extra time spent together.

My middle couldn't tie his shoes, count consistently or read at the beginning of the school year. He can now.

Both boys are wonderful to Owen. He loves them so much and they are so sweet with him.

The boys tell us we are the "best" parents and are starting to show appreciation for the way we show them how much we love them.

They know we are family forever, even if they forget it on bad days.

If I didn't recall these things regularly, I would despair because day-to-day can be really hard sometimes. Therapy helps. Having someone to vent to who can help explain my children to me makes me feel less crazy, and more capable. I struggle less with taking things personally. I can acknowledge their limitations most days. Sometimes I fail and expect way more from them than they're capable of delivering. On those days, I reap what I sew.

I'm learning.

I expect I always will be.

We have another baby due in less than 5 months.

Our house will once again be thrown into upheaval. Triggers will be pulled, buttons pressed. All of our children will have to adjust to another little person demanding of my time, taking away from theirs. I suspect we will experience some regression and bad choices, because sometimes a new baby is a reminder that they have been replaced before. A new baby means less love and attention from mom and dad. A new baby means mom drifts further away from being the mom she needs to be.

Only not me.

And I will have to remind them- not me.

I'm not that mom.

They can trust me. They can know they aren't being replaced, but are being added to. They will know they are the most important big brothers and that they are needed and valued. They will know that this baby simply means more love, more laughter, more joy, and more TOYS!

Hopefully I can count on that to distract them from their painful memories and hard pasts.

They don't live there anymore.

Love Stinks

Have you ever been so angry at your kids that you could scream? Or worse yet, you DO scream?

Last night Rocky spoke the words that every parent has felt at least once (only once if you're lucky): "Sometimes I hate being a parent."

Preach.

Parenting is hard and not nearly as enjoyable as often as one would hope.

Parenting our kiddos seems extra hard some days because of their disabilities and trauma history, which often results in behaviors that defy explanation and leave you wanting to explode. Or go for a long walk. Or drink a bottle of wine.

I remember as a kid thinking that my parents got some sick pleasure out of disciplining us when we were in trouble. Now, as a parent myself, I can see how wrong I was.

Having to discipline your kids SUCKS. Like super duper sucks.

In our home we have a huge lying problem. A psychologist will tell you that for normally-developed children without a trauma history, lying is a normal and positive part of a child's brain development. But for our children, who are younger emotionally and mentally than their chronological ages, and who come with a battery of issues because of their pasts, lying is a way of life. Lying means protection. Self-preservation. Survival.

Even 2.5 years later, there's still so much lying.

There's also a lot of finger-pointing between brothers. "He did it!" "No, HE did it."

It's exhausting. And pretty infuriating, because the "it" they're usually referring to is some kind of damage or destruction that will cost us money to fix or replace.

We understand as parents that things get broken in the course of life and play when you have a house full of kids. We don't purchase anything really expensive or nice because we don't want to make it easier for our kids to get in trouble or have accidents.

But our kids, well...our kids take things up a notch. One in particular breaks things on purpose. Out of anger, or curiosity, or boredom, or just carelessness, he is our destructor and it's difficult sometimes to live with him. He can be quite expensive.

Right now this kid is on the outs with rest of the family because of him repeated destructive actions.

And it's hard on all of us. My oldest misses his brother. The baby misses playing with his brother. I hate having a kid upstairs by himself because he's grounded while the weather outside is beautiful and we're all playing.

There is nothing enjoyable about disciplining your kids.

But it's necessary and good for their healing and development.

Consistency is our everything in this household. It's the only way we can undo (or heal) years of garbage these kids have learned and lived through. It is the only way our kids can eventually grow into kind, responsible, compassionate, remorseful, helpful, and successful young men.

Frederick Douglass said, "It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men."

So this is where we sit.

Building strong children through love, forgiveness, consistency, and yes, even discipline.

I will not allow my boys to become broken men.

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.