Today as been borderline unbearable. My kids' annoying qualities have reached a fever pitch as we survive the last few days of summer before school starts back up next Tuesday. Owen's cold, combined with his full-fledged toddler mania, has made the last few days miserable. Little sleep, lots of whining, TONS of destruction around the house. Nothing appeases him. It's been miserable for the both of us. And the awful third-trimester symptoms are at an all-time high: acid-reflux, leg cramps, shortness of breath, forgetfulness and loss of reflexes. I have dropped so many things today. I am on my own last nerve.
Life has been hard for me recently.
Adding to that heaviness is the anxiety of knowing I will have a newborn in 7 weeks jpoiging the mix of what feels like an already crazy house; certainly a house not prepared to welcome him. I have a torn-up bathroom upstairs. Boxes everywhere. Unfinished minor house projects. Deep-cleaning that needs to happen. I feel completely ill-prepared. A "What was I thinking?" kind of sinking feeling. Why did I think I could add another baby? With no help? No family nearby?
I must be crazy.
I guess there are worse things to be.
I know this season will pass. I'm already amazed when I look back at pictures from a year ago and see how tiny Owen was. Now he's just a regular ol' toddler terrorist. And some moments I have a hard time remembering that sweet little cherub that smiled no matter what. It must be hard to be him, too. It must be so frustrating to not be able to communicate exactly what you want and how you feel. I sympathize with him, but it sure has made things hard the last few days. He just gets so upset so quickly.
And so do I.
Sigh.
I need a break.
Thursday, September 1, 2016
Monday, August 15, 2016
Ho Hey
It has been a year since we went to court and a judge terminated the parental rights of our kids' birth parents. A whole year has passed and they are still not legally adopted. Failures across the board by the court system, our foster agency and the State of Illinois as a whole have further delayed closure and permanence for our children.
I always see these pictures on Facebook of these bright-eyed, grinning children holding some Pinterest-worthy chalkboard sign exclaiming that after so many (hundreds of) days in foster care they are finally adopted. The numbers written vary but they are almost always close to 1,000. It is heartbreaking to think that these kids, my kids, have spent so much time, so many years in limbo waiting for a bureaucracy to grant them the security of belonging to a family forever. It's frustrating as a parent to have to constantly tell my kids that I don't know when they will be adopted. It's unfair and cruel that they should have no legal parents for more than a year now.
We retained an adoption attorney soon after the termination hearing, but her hands are tied. She cannot push up the timeline because her sole job is to wait on our foster agency and the State to get their acts together and submit subsidy paperwork to her so that we can set a court date. It's all a very lengthy and convoluted process, especially when dealing with agencies affected by high turnover rates and a lack of a State budget. Because of this, we truly have no idea when the adoption could be finalized.
In the meantime, we try our best to live like the boys are ours. Life goes on for us as usual, except for the inconvenience of monthly home visits from the caseworker, spotty sibling visitation with their biological siblings (also wards of the state), and foster licensing visits every 6 months. We still have to get permission to travel out-of-state (even if it's just across the border into Indiana or Wisconsin for lunch!), and are completely reliant on a broken system of agencies to make sure our kids' needs are being met and rights are being honored. It's exhausting and truly annoying.
"Here, take care of these kids. They're yours, but not really. Not legally. Not yet. Someday."
A year ago, when this court decision happened, we were heartbroken for our children and their mom. We grieved the permanent loss they now know of never again being able to live with and be a part of the family unit into which they were born. We are still sad for our children and their siblings. We are not not sad for their mother, but we've had more confirmations than we can count that this was absolutely the best outcome for our boys and their little sisters. As devastating as this is and will continue to be for our kids, we are hopeful that with continued regular therapy and the stability and support they have gained in our family and within our community of friends and neighbors, they will heal and one day thrive.
We had wanted so much, and still do, to keep the boys connected to their mother. As time has gone on, she has pulled back, cancelled visits, stopped calling, and made excuse after excuse as to why. Why she's late. Why she can't make it. Why she hasn't called. Our kids have been disappointed, rejected, betrayed and hurt repeatedly by her lack of involvement, and truly, what they see as lack of interest in them or their lives. When she finally does show up via text message or random visitation with their siblings they are overjoyed, but guarded. My middle child is like a forever-forgiving puppy dog. It doesn't matter what someone does to him; He forgives and forgets. My oldest, on the other hand, doesn't get too close, and I have to force him to say goodbye to his mom when the visit is over. When she calls (once in a blue moon), he has to think of superficial things to talk about because he's too afraid to say the things he really wants to say, the things that keep him up at night and cause his heart to break over and over when he thinks about them. He can't be vulnerable with her. He can't be himself. He knows he will probably never get the answers he deserves. And so at the tender age of 8, he puts on a mask and tells her about the new Legos he just got or the movie he watched or the sport he played in the backyard.
He can't ask her why she doesn't call him or visit.
He can't tell her how hurt he is by her failures.
He can't ask her why she made the choices she did that resulted in him being placed into foster care.
He can't tell her that he has nightmares about her dying or abandoning him.
He has to keep all of these things to himself, sharing (some of) them only with his therapist and us, whom he trusts. He knows we will comfort him and provide the only answer we can a lot of the time: I don't know.
I don't know why she doesn't call or ask to see you.
I don't know why she makes choices that hurt you.
I don't know why she tried too late to make changes that could have kept you as hers.
I don't know why she doesn't seem sad when you see her.
These are hard questions that even an adult would have a hard time articulating, would be afraid to ask someone who's hurt them. It's not fair that my child has these questions rattling around in his head and heart. I understand that the finalization of the adoption will not take these questions away. I know it won't fill the hole in his heart that could only ever be filled by her, but won't. I know it won't offer him relief and peace, making him forget everything he's gone through.
But, it will give him security. He can never again be taken away, removed or abandoned by parents entrusted to care for and love him.
It will give him hope for a future that would not have been possible had a judge not made the hard, painful, brave decision to terminate rights.
It will give him comfort to know that he doesn't have to pretend with us; that we love him no matter what and will be here for him in the good times and bad.
That's all we want. We just want them to know that we're theirs and they're ours, forever.
That's all we're asking for.
That's all we're waiting for.
Not subsidies, not court dates, not formalities.
Just acknowledgment.
We are a family.
And they don't have to worry anymore.
I always see these pictures on Facebook of these bright-eyed, grinning children holding some Pinterest-worthy chalkboard sign exclaiming that after so many (hundreds of) days in foster care they are finally adopted. The numbers written vary but they are almost always close to 1,000. It is heartbreaking to think that these kids, my kids, have spent so much time, so many years in limbo waiting for a bureaucracy to grant them the security of belonging to a family forever. It's frustrating as a parent to have to constantly tell my kids that I don't know when they will be adopted. It's unfair and cruel that they should have no legal parents for more than a year now.
We retained an adoption attorney soon after the termination hearing, but her hands are tied. She cannot push up the timeline because her sole job is to wait on our foster agency and the State to get their acts together and submit subsidy paperwork to her so that we can set a court date. It's all a very lengthy and convoluted process, especially when dealing with agencies affected by high turnover rates and a lack of a State budget. Because of this, we truly have no idea when the adoption could be finalized.
In the meantime, we try our best to live like the boys are ours. Life goes on for us as usual, except for the inconvenience of monthly home visits from the caseworker, spotty sibling visitation with their biological siblings (also wards of the state), and foster licensing visits every 6 months. We still have to get permission to travel out-of-state (even if it's just across the border into Indiana or Wisconsin for lunch!), and are completely reliant on a broken system of agencies to make sure our kids' needs are being met and rights are being honored. It's exhausting and truly annoying.
"Here, take care of these kids. They're yours, but not really. Not legally. Not yet. Someday."
A year ago, when this court decision happened, we were heartbroken for our children and their mom. We grieved the permanent loss they now know of never again being able to live with and be a part of the family unit into which they were born. We are still sad for our children and their siblings. We are not not sad for their mother, but we've had more confirmations than we can count that this was absolutely the best outcome for our boys and their little sisters. As devastating as this is and will continue to be for our kids, we are hopeful that with continued regular therapy and the stability and support they have gained in our family and within our community of friends and neighbors, they will heal and one day thrive.
We had wanted so much, and still do, to keep the boys connected to their mother. As time has gone on, she has pulled back, cancelled visits, stopped calling, and made excuse after excuse as to why. Why she's late. Why she can't make it. Why she hasn't called. Our kids have been disappointed, rejected, betrayed and hurt repeatedly by her lack of involvement, and truly, what they see as lack of interest in them or their lives. When she finally does show up via text message or random visitation with their siblings they are overjoyed, but guarded. My middle child is like a forever-forgiving puppy dog. It doesn't matter what someone does to him; He forgives and forgets. My oldest, on the other hand, doesn't get too close, and I have to force him to say goodbye to his mom when the visit is over. When she calls (once in a blue moon), he has to think of superficial things to talk about because he's too afraid to say the things he really wants to say, the things that keep him up at night and cause his heart to break over and over when he thinks about them. He can't be vulnerable with her. He can't be himself. He knows he will probably never get the answers he deserves. And so at the tender age of 8, he puts on a mask and tells her about the new Legos he just got or the movie he watched or the sport he played in the backyard.
He can't ask her why she doesn't call him or visit.
He can't tell her how hurt he is by her failures.
He can't ask her why she made the choices she did that resulted in him being placed into foster care.
He can't tell her that he has nightmares about her dying or abandoning him.
He has to keep all of these things to himself, sharing (some of) them only with his therapist and us, whom he trusts. He knows we will comfort him and provide the only answer we can a lot of the time: I don't know.
I don't know why she doesn't call or ask to see you.
I don't know why she makes choices that hurt you.
I don't know why she tried too late to make changes that could have kept you as hers.
I don't know why she doesn't seem sad when you see her.
These are hard questions that even an adult would have a hard time articulating, would be afraid to ask someone who's hurt them. It's not fair that my child has these questions rattling around in his head and heart. I understand that the finalization of the adoption will not take these questions away. I know it won't fill the hole in his heart that could only ever be filled by her, but won't. I know it won't offer him relief and peace, making him forget everything he's gone through.
But, it will give him security. He can never again be taken away, removed or abandoned by parents entrusted to care for and love him.
It will give him hope for a future that would not have been possible had a judge not made the hard, painful, brave decision to terminate rights.
It will give him comfort to know that he doesn't have to pretend with us; that we love him no matter what and will be here for him in the good times and bad.
That's all we want. We just want them to know that we're theirs and they're ours, forever.
That's all we're asking for.
That's all we're waiting for.
Not subsidies, not court dates, not formalities.
Just acknowledgment.
We are a family.
And they don't have to worry anymore.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
Summertime
Summer around here has been hot and humid. Steamy, even. It's felt a lot like living on the East coast, making it somewhat unbearable for this pregnant lady to spend any amount of extended time outside.
I feel bad for my kiddos...summer is winding down (only one month left until school starts back up) and we've only gone to the pool once and one kid has gone to the beach once with grandma. Otherwise they've been playing their leap pads, riding bikes, shooting water guns and watching movies. It doesn't sound that bad actually, but mommy guilt is palpable and I feel bad for not giving them any fun summer experiences. My hail mary is the weekend trip we have planned for the end of the month near Notre Dame in Indiana. We rented an Airbnb with a pool and situated on the river so we should get plenty of outdoor fun before the summer ends.
Pregnancy the second time around has been strange. For some reason I thought it would feel the same as it did with Owen. Magical, momentous, awe-inspiring. Not that it's not those things, but certainly not the way it was the first time. I find myself so busy with the kids and still all-consumed by Owen that I can't really give this pregnancy the same kind of focus and attention that I had before. Again, mommy guilt.
I was hoping to be more fit this time around. Unfortunately, though I am more active, it seems that pregnancy just likes me with more weight. I will never be one of those "all belly" ladies with skinny arms, thighs and face all the while with a beach ball belly. I will expand everywhere, like I did with Owen, and eventually, I will work to lose the weight.
We have decided that this is our last baby. My last pregnancy. The last time I will grow life within my body and feel the soft flutter, and then strong jolt of baby kicks inside my tummy. The last time I would have waited expectantly for that plus sign to appear, then grinned with excitement at the thought of telling Rocky that we're going to have a baby. The last time I had a chance to bear a biological daughter.
We've decided it's time to close this door, though we still haven't decided on the when. I'd like to be hormone-free before making that permanent decision.
But we feel comfortable with our choice.
It feels right.
Four boys feels like enough.
I don't even grieve the daughter I never had.
At least not yet.
It's a foreign concept to me anyway.
This endless summer has not been nearly as bad as I anticipated it to be. Between kids staggered at camp and summer school there hasn't been too much time for nonstop bickering. The kids are still at each other's throats more-so than not, but it's manageable. When I need to separate them, I do. They're getting better at handling consequences than they used to. Less tears and, "but I didn't..." and more quiet, if not angry, acceptance that they were wrong. It's progress.
I am just feeling so tired and a bit lethargic right now. Part of it is the pregnancy (hello, third trimester!). Part of it is that Owen has never been a good sleeper and still wakes up a few times a night, which means I do, too. Part of it is summer and the overwhelming heat and humidity of some days. Part of it is living in a city with constant noise pollution and no privacy whatsoever. Part of it is sheer exhaustion of raising kids with so many issues and needs that are not typical of other kids their ages. Part of it is (sniffle) getting older and needing more rest but still being in a season in my life where I'm having babies and chasing toddlers.
It's a season I'm looking forward to moving out of. I'd like to eventually get back to myself a little bit, and my marriage (which let me just say I am so grateful for! I have such a wonderful partner in Rocky. He makes marriage easy).
But right now, as the big kids head off to bed, I just want to put my slightly swollen feet up, eat an unhealthy snack, snuggle my toddler for as long as he'll let me, and watch some gratuitous tv.
Mommy guilt doesn't win all the time.
I feel bad for my kiddos...summer is winding down (only one month left until school starts back up) and we've only gone to the pool once and one kid has gone to the beach once with grandma. Otherwise they've been playing their leap pads, riding bikes, shooting water guns and watching movies. It doesn't sound that bad actually, but mommy guilt is palpable and I feel bad for not giving them any fun summer experiences. My hail mary is the weekend trip we have planned for the end of the month near Notre Dame in Indiana. We rented an Airbnb with a pool and situated on the river so we should get plenty of outdoor fun before the summer ends.
Pregnancy the second time around has been strange. For some reason I thought it would feel the same as it did with Owen. Magical, momentous, awe-inspiring. Not that it's not those things, but certainly not the way it was the first time. I find myself so busy with the kids and still all-consumed by Owen that I can't really give this pregnancy the same kind of focus and attention that I had before. Again, mommy guilt.
I was hoping to be more fit this time around. Unfortunately, though I am more active, it seems that pregnancy just likes me with more weight. I will never be one of those "all belly" ladies with skinny arms, thighs and face all the while with a beach ball belly. I will expand everywhere, like I did with Owen, and eventually, I will work to lose the weight.
We have decided that this is our last baby. My last pregnancy. The last time I will grow life within my body and feel the soft flutter, and then strong jolt of baby kicks inside my tummy. The last time I would have waited expectantly for that plus sign to appear, then grinned with excitement at the thought of telling Rocky that we're going to have a baby. The last time I had a chance to bear a biological daughter.
We've decided it's time to close this door, though we still haven't decided on the when. I'd like to be hormone-free before making that permanent decision.
But we feel comfortable with our choice.
It feels right.
Four boys feels like enough.
I don't even grieve the daughter I never had.
At least not yet.
It's a foreign concept to me anyway.
This endless summer has not been nearly as bad as I anticipated it to be. Between kids staggered at camp and summer school there hasn't been too much time for nonstop bickering. The kids are still at each other's throats more-so than not, but it's manageable. When I need to separate them, I do. They're getting better at handling consequences than they used to. Less tears and, "but I didn't..." and more quiet, if not angry, acceptance that they were wrong. It's progress.
I am just feeling so tired and a bit lethargic right now. Part of it is the pregnancy (hello, third trimester!). Part of it is that Owen has never been a good sleeper and still wakes up a few times a night, which means I do, too. Part of it is summer and the overwhelming heat and humidity of some days. Part of it is living in a city with constant noise pollution and no privacy whatsoever. Part of it is sheer exhaustion of raising kids with so many issues and needs that are not typical of other kids their ages. Part of it is (sniffle) getting older and needing more rest but still being in a season in my life where I'm having babies and chasing toddlers.
It's a season I'm looking forward to moving out of. I'd like to eventually get back to myself a little bit, and my marriage (which let me just say I am so grateful for! I have such a wonderful partner in Rocky. He makes marriage easy).
But right now, as the big kids head off to bed, I just want to put my slightly swollen feet up, eat an unhealthy snack, snuggle my toddler for as long as he'll let me, and watch some gratuitous tv.
Mommy guilt doesn't win all the time.
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
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.
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.
Thursday, June 2, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, May 23, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 17, 2016
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.
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.
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