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?
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Friday, November 20, 2015
Sticks and Stones
I've always been the kind of person who appreciated knowing exactly where I stood. I never liked guessing about the level of my friendships or how I was viewed by others. The gray area always made me uncomfortable.
Did you like me or not? Are we acquaintances? Casual friends? Good friends? Besties? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Partners?
Being a foster parent was easy for the first 6 months. Not because it was easy, but because I knew my place. I was the foster mom. The stand-in until the boys could go home. I would love them, and comfort them, and pray with them and tell them how very special they were while I advocated for reunification. I prayed for their parents' healing. I wished, and hoped, and crossed my fingers that the boys could one day go home.
But then in April 2013, that dream was dashed. The goal changed from reunification to termination of parental rights, and I was thrust into a world where I no longer knew my place.
I was still a foster mom.
I was still a stand-in.
But I was also now a pre-adoptive mom.
A future permanent mom.
Only, their mom didn't go away.
She was still around.
We shared this title: Mom.
And it became painful, and hard, and awkward, and sad, and hurtful, and confusing.
This past week we sat down with the boys and their therapist to tell them that their parents' rights had been terminated, their appeals lost, and that we would be adopting them. They would be ours forever. They would be Stones.
And emotional chaos ensued.
Anger. Sadness. Denial. A host of "it's not fair"s.
Rejection.
Defeat.
Disbelief.
Our kids were crushed. Not because they don't love us, but because forever and never are big words. Final words.
They would never live with their mom.
They would forever live with us.
Imagine being 6 and 8 (and emotionally, quite a bit younger than that) and being told that you will never again share a home with your mother and siblings. The realization was made harder by the fact that there is still a real possibility that 4 of their siblings may return home at some point if mom continues to make good progress. She may in fact get half of her children back. But the other half? My boys and their little sisters up the street? Never. She will never get them back. She will never be their only mom.
And my heart breaks for her, too. Yes, my children are complete victims and have done nothing to deserve this lot in life, but I'm confident in saying that their mom didn't have much of a chance herself. I don't know that this would have played out differently even if we weren't in the picture. And this is the best case scenario for the boys.
But best never equaled easy.
This week has been filled with poor behavior and hurtful words as the kids have struggled to carry the impossible burden of never. I have been tested, boundaries have been pushed, I have failed to show grace and compassion. I have yelled and disciplined. I have fallen short, and I have crawled back and asked forgiveness from my kids. I have held them as they cried, rocked them as they just couldn't find the words to say, held their hands as they struggled to comprehend the never.
And thus it will always be so.
I will always exist in the gray area with them.
I will never just be their mom.
I will hold a number of other titles and roles in their lives.
Adoptive mom.
Other mom.
Mom who made it impossible for their mom to "win."
Mom who took them away from their family.
It will never be easy again.
And I will have to live with my own never.
I will never be their only mom.
We will never be a family, just us.
I will never be able to take away their pain and make them complete.
Only Jesus.
Only Jesus.
Did you like me or not? Are we acquaintances? Casual friends? Good friends? Besties? Boyfriend-girlfriend? Partners?
Being a foster parent was easy for the first 6 months. Not because it was easy, but because I knew my place. I was the foster mom. The stand-in until the boys could go home. I would love them, and comfort them, and pray with them and tell them how very special they were while I advocated for reunification. I prayed for their parents' healing. I wished, and hoped, and crossed my fingers that the boys could one day go home.
But then in April 2013, that dream was dashed. The goal changed from reunification to termination of parental rights, and I was thrust into a world where I no longer knew my place.
I was still a foster mom.
I was still a stand-in.
But I was also now a pre-adoptive mom.
A future permanent mom.
Only, their mom didn't go away.
She was still around.
We shared this title: Mom.
And it became painful, and hard, and awkward, and sad, and hurtful, and confusing.
This past week we sat down with the boys and their therapist to tell them that their parents' rights had been terminated, their appeals lost, and that we would be adopting them. They would be ours forever. They would be Stones.
And emotional chaos ensued.
Anger. Sadness. Denial. A host of "it's not fair"s.
Rejection.
Defeat.
Disbelief.
Our kids were crushed. Not because they don't love us, but because forever and never are big words. Final words.
They would never live with their mom.
They would forever live with us.
Imagine being 6 and 8 (and emotionally, quite a bit younger than that) and being told that you will never again share a home with your mother and siblings. The realization was made harder by the fact that there is still a real possibility that 4 of their siblings may return home at some point if mom continues to make good progress. She may in fact get half of her children back. But the other half? My boys and their little sisters up the street? Never. She will never get them back. She will never be their only mom.
And my heart breaks for her, too. Yes, my children are complete victims and have done nothing to deserve this lot in life, but I'm confident in saying that their mom didn't have much of a chance herself. I don't know that this would have played out differently even if we weren't in the picture. And this is the best case scenario for the boys.
But best never equaled easy.
This week has been filled with poor behavior and hurtful words as the kids have struggled to carry the impossible burden of never. I have been tested, boundaries have been pushed, I have failed to show grace and compassion. I have yelled and disciplined. I have fallen short, and I have crawled back and asked forgiveness from my kids. I have held them as they cried, rocked them as they just couldn't find the words to say, held their hands as they struggled to comprehend the never.
And thus it will always be so.
I will always exist in the gray area with them.
I will never just be their mom.
I will hold a number of other titles and roles in their lives.
Adoptive mom.
Other mom.
Mom who made it impossible for their mom to "win."
Mom who took them away from their family.
It will never be easy again.
And I will have to live with my own never.
I will never be their only mom.
We will never be a family, just us.
I will never be able to take away their pain and make them complete.
Only Jesus.
Only Jesus.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
Fly Away
My mom always tells me how wonderful it is that I'm a mom at a time when, more than ever, moms can say how they really feel about being a mom. All the hard, raw, ugly truth. It's safe, especially when you have a tight-knit group of mom friends to commiserate with.
I remember 15 years ago when my cousin had her first baby and she said something to the effect of, "When you're a mother you suffer in silence," which is basically saying that you might be miserable but it's not about you anymore so shut your mouth, put on a happy face, and make your child's life worthwhile. And I thought, "Yeah, that sounds about right."
How wrong was I?!
Do you know what would happen if we suffered in silence? Pretty much all the things that happened to so many mothers in the 50s and 60s. Depression. Addiction. Abandonment. Suicide.
Being a mother is absolutely amazing. But it is not all bliss. There are some very real, very deep valleys, and when you're in one, the last thing you want to do is remain silent. Instinctually, if you were alone in a deep, dark place, would you not call out for help? Would you not seek a higher vantage point?
I read a blog post today from a funny mommy blogger (which is a thing now, another outlet for moms to vent and laugh at all the nuances of being a parent), and she wrote, "Mothers have a deeper need for emotional and physical space than anyone else, and yet we are the ones who are least likely to manage to make that happen for ourselves." Did you see that? We have the greatest need, yet we are least likely to have that need met.
Being a mother is not a burden, but it is burdensome. It is something I chose with my whole heart and I have never once regretted. I love so much about it. But the hard stuff? I don't think anyone can say they enjoy the hard stuff. Calls from your kid's school because they got in trouble...again. Sitting in yet another parent-teacher meeting because your kid just can't keep up and needs a revised IEP. Cleaning up bodily fluids from surfaces they most definitely should not be on. Calling your husband in tears because your children have flooded the kitchen. Spending hard-earned money to replace one broken thing after another. Worrying about your kids' futures, the choices they will make, the people they will be.
Why would I want to be silent about any of this?
And also, it's clear why moms need a break.
Regularly, we are all together and yet the kids still defer to me for everything. I can be in another room, with Rocky right next to them, and they will still call out for me to help them, get them something, answer a question...Mommy is the word.
I am not one of those people who loves to be needed.
Before I had kids I was a big believer in personal space. Alone time. Hardcore introverting.
These things are unheard of once you have kids.
And I would not trade my kids- hear me! Not for one second does my desire for personal space trump my desire to be a mom, but...
Sometimes we need a break, man!
Sometimes the incessant, "Mommy?" and never-ending laundry and mountains of dishes and constantly pickup up everyone. else's. crap. warrants a break.
Even people in solitary confinement get an hour outside each day.
Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, I asked Rocky if I could go to Target alone. I needed a break. I ended up having (choosing) to take the baby because he had to work from home, but I was alone enough, I guess. I took my time, browsed the aisles, spent wayyyyy more than I had planned, but I came to the (re)realization that I needed this break at least once a week. I came home and declared that Thursday nights would be mine. After dinner, I would take a few hours to myself, outside of the house, to be alone doing something that didn't involve (1) shopping for needed household items like toilet paper or (2) anything related to the kids, unless I so chose.
That was two weeks ago.
I haven't have alone time since.
Sometimes even just the thought of a long, uninterrupted shower is enough to make me swoon.
You know what the most ridiculous thing is, though? It's even hard for me to enjoy this mythical alone time, because I'm constantly thinking about, or missing, Owen.
That baby.
Gah.
I just hate being away from him for long periods of time. He might be my only baby (another way my mommy-mind manipulates me from taking care of me) and so I don't want to miss out on him. And then I worry that he's not being played with and engaged if I leave him (mommy guilt and daddy blame). And then I stress that he might be hungry (breast is best, after all...right?)
You see? Not only can I not get away, but the thought of getting away from Owen gives me anxiety.
So what does that mean?
W(h)ine and cheese nights with other moms?
Strolling through Target, baby in tow, just for a change of scenery? ($$$$$)
Short, infrequent, one-hour breaks because that time amount limits all the guilt and anxiety listed above?
What would I even do with myself if I could take a break once a week? I'm pretty sure I don't have any hobbies...
What do moms do when they're not momming?
You'll have to ask me months from now, when I've finally put Owen down and stopped kissing him a million times a day. Otherwise, I'm pretty certain my "breaks" will include him.
I remember 15 years ago when my cousin had her first baby and she said something to the effect of, "When you're a mother you suffer in silence," which is basically saying that you might be miserable but it's not about you anymore so shut your mouth, put on a happy face, and make your child's life worthwhile. And I thought, "Yeah, that sounds about right."
How wrong was I?!
Do you know what would happen if we suffered in silence? Pretty much all the things that happened to so many mothers in the 50s and 60s. Depression. Addiction. Abandonment. Suicide.
Being a mother is absolutely amazing. But it is not all bliss. There are some very real, very deep valleys, and when you're in one, the last thing you want to do is remain silent. Instinctually, if you were alone in a deep, dark place, would you not call out for help? Would you not seek a higher vantage point?
I read a blog post today from a funny mommy blogger (which is a thing now, another outlet for moms to vent and laugh at all the nuances of being a parent), and she wrote, "Mothers have a deeper need for emotional and physical space than anyone else, and yet we are the ones who are least likely to manage to make that happen for ourselves." Did you see that? We have the greatest need, yet we are least likely to have that need met.
Being a mother is not a burden, but it is burdensome. It is something I chose with my whole heart and I have never once regretted. I love so much about it. But the hard stuff? I don't think anyone can say they enjoy the hard stuff. Calls from your kid's school because they got in trouble...again. Sitting in yet another parent-teacher meeting because your kid just can't keep up and needs a revised IEP. Cleaning up bodily fluids from surfaces they most definitely should not be on. Calling your husband in tears because your children have flooded the kitchen. Spending hard-earned money to replace one broken thing after another. Worrying about your kids' futures, the choices they will make, the people they will be.
Why would I want to be silent about any of this?
And also, it's clear why moms need a break.
Regularly, we are all together and yet the kids still defer to me for everything. I can be in another room, with Rocky right next to them, and they will still call out for me to help them, get them something, answer a question...Mommy is the word.
I am not one of those people who loves to be needed.
Before I had kids I was a big believer in personal space. Alone time. Hardcore introverting.
These things are unheard of once you have kids.
And I would not trade my kids- hear me! Not for one second does my desire for personal space trump my desire to be a mom, but...
Sometimes we need a break, man!
Sometimes the incessant, "Mommy?" and never-ending laundry and mountains of dishes and constantly pickup up everyone. else's. crap. warrants a break.
Even people in solitary confinement get an hour outside each day.
Two weeks ago, on a Thursday night, I asked Rocky if I could go to Target alone. I needed a break. I ended up having (choosing) to take the baby because he had to work from home, but I was alone enough, I guess. I took my time, browsed the aisles, spent wayyyyy more than I had planned, but I came to the (re)realization that I needed this break at least once a week. I came home and declared that Thursday nights would be mine. After dinner, I would take a few hours to myself, outside of the house, to be alone doing something that didn't involve (1) shopping for needed household items like toilet paper or (2) anything related to the kids, unless I so chose.
That was two weeks ago.
I haven't have alone time since.
Sometimes even just the thought of a long, uninterrupted shower is enough to make me swoon.
You know what the most ridiculous thing is, though? It's even hard for me to enjoy this mythical alone time, because I'm constantly thinking about, or missing, Owen.
That baby.
Gah.
I just hate being away from him for long periods of time. He might be my only baby (another way my mommy-mind manipulates me from taking care of me) and so I don't want to miss out on him. And then I worry that he's not being played with and engaged if I leave him (mommy guilt and daddy blame). And then I stress that he might be hungry (breast is best, after all...right?)
You see? Not only can I not get away, but the thought of getting away from Owen gives me anxiety.
So what does that mean?
W(h)ine and cheese nights with other moms?
Strolling through Target, baby in tow, just for a change of scenery? ($$$$$)
Short, infrequent, one-hour breaks because that time amount limits all the guilt and anxiety listed above?
What would I even do with myself if I could take a break once a week? I'm pretty sure I don't have any hobbies...
What do moms do when they're not momming?
You'll have to ask me months from now, when I've finally put Owen down and stopped kissing him a million times a day. Otherwise, I'm pretty certain my "breaks" will include him.
Friday, October 2, 2015
Pale September
My body didn't "bounce back" the way they made it sound like it would if you chose to breastfeed. I also wasn't one of the lucky ones who got a reprieve from a period while breastfeeding. My old jeans don't fit. It's not so much the remaining baby weight I'm still carrying, but my body has changed. Things have shifted, widened, sagged. It's a difficult thing to look at a beautiful 6 month old baby and then look down and wonder when you will be back to normal.
Today I put my maternity jeans back on.
I haven't been this comfortable in months.
I remember all those months we tried to conceive, with no success, and being so disappointed in my body. Even now, with my miracle staring back at me, I am still disappointed in my body because it didn't shrink back up the way I thought it would; The way I wanted it to.
But this body is amazing.
This body nurtured and carried my son as he grew, healthy, in my womb. It still does that.
This body labored for hours to bring him into this world, and then labored again through months of recovery from the trauma of childbirth.
This body feeds him all the nutrients he needs to thrive, carries him up and down stairs, bathes him, plays with him, takes him for walks, holds him up in the air while he giggles and squeals.
This body has been faithful and strong and reliable.
This body still makes my husband do a double-take, even with all the new lumps and divets and stretched skin. He still loves him and tells me I'm beautiful.
It's hard to see that myself. It's hard to look at what my body has done, created, and judge it so harshly. I would like to just put on something warm and comfortable, light a pumpkin-scented candle, sip hot tea and drown in the wonder of my baby all day without feeling self-conscious about my belly. I don't want to miss anything about this time by being too focussed on a number on the scale.
It's autumn here. The beginning of my favorite time of year. Today Owen and I are in matching gray and white sweaters. The leaves have started to change colors and the breeze that blows is no longer refreshing, but crisp and cool and makes you wish a warm beverage was permaglued to your hand. If Spring is new life then Fall is the last burst of energy before inevitable death, before the long hibernation of winter. Every time the cool breeze blows I want to close my eyes, breathe it in, feeling the warm sun on my face as I savor the last hurrah of life, of color.
I'm thankful for this time of year more than any other, I think, because I'm reminded of all that has happened in such a short amount of time. Every time the seasons change, and winter looms, I'm reminded of all the life that has been lived when it was warm enough to open the windows. This is the time of year that family gathers, celebrations and thanks are offered, new friendships are forged and old friendships are deepened. I find myself seeking out Jesus more in the quiet of this season than any other during the year.
In a season where it's dangerous to want more things, spend more money, do more activities, I want to want more grace, spend more time, do more praying. I want to love my neighbors, serve my family, give thanks to God. I want to be grateful.
I want to look at myself in the mirror and not see the baby weight, but the weight of the baby and everything he's brought to this family. I want to believe in miracles because I've experienced one. I want to love this body no matter what shape, size, or condition.
And so I will wear these maternity jeans without shame until I can find a pair that make me feel comfortable, and I will light that candle, and share my Jesus with Owen while we sit by the window and watch the cool breeze blow the leaves off the trees. And at the end of the day, what's better than that anyway?
Today I put my maternity jeans back on.
I haven't been this comfortable in months.
I remember all those months we tried to conceive, with no success, and being so disappointed in my body. Even now, with my miracle staring back at me, I am still disappointed in my body because it didn't shrink back up the way I thought it would; The way I wanted it to.
But this body is amazing.
This body nurtured and carried my son as he grew, healthy, in my womb. It still does that.
This body labored for hours to bring him into this world, and then labored again through months of recovery from the trauma of childbirth.
This body feeds him all the nutrients he needs to thrive, carries him up and down stairs, bathes him, plays with him, takes him for walks, holds him up in the air while he giggles and squeals.
This body has been faithful and strong and reliable.
This body still makes my husband do a double-take, even with all the new lumps and divets and stretched skin. He still loves him and tells me I'm beautiful.
It's hard to see that myself. It's hard to look at what my body has done, created, and judge it so harshly. I would like to just put on something warm and comfortable, light a pumpkin-scented candle, sip hot tea and drown in the wonder of my baby all day without feeling self-conscious about my belly. I don't want to miss anything about this time by being too focussed on a number on the scale.
It's autumn here. The beginning of my favorite time of year. Today Owen and I are in matching gray and white sweaters. The leaves have started to change colors and the breeze that blows is no longer refreshing, but crisp and cool and makes you wish a warm beverage was permaglued to your hand. If Spring is new life then Fall is the last burst of energy before inevitable death, before the long hibernation of winter. Every time the cool breeze blows I want to close my eyes, breathe it in, feeling the warm sun on my face as I savor the last hurrah of life, of color.
I'm thankful for this time of year more than any other, I think, because I'm reminded of all that has happened in such a short amount of time. Every time the seasons change, and winter looms, I'm reminded of all the life that has been lived when it was warm enough to open the windows. This is the time of year that family gathers, celebrations and thanks are offered, new friendships are forged and old friendships are deepened. I find myself seeking out Jesus more in the quiet of this season than any other during the year.
In a season where it's dangerous to want more things, spend more money, do more activities, I want to want more grace, spend more time, do more praying. I want to love my neighbors, serve my family, give thanks to God. I want to be grateful.
I want to look at myself in the mirror and not see the baby weight, but the weight of the baby and everything he's brought to this family. I want to believe in miracles because I've experienced one. I want to love this body no matter what shape, size, or condition.
And so I will wear these maternity jeans without shame until I can find a pair that make me feel comfortable, and I will light that candle, and share my Jesus with Owen while we sit by the window and watch the cool breeze blow the leaves off the trees. And at the end of the day, what's better than that anyway?
Friday, September 4, 2015
ABC
It's that time of year again. Time to "fall back." Time for sharpened pencils and clean uniforms and quietly contained hopes and dreams for the new year. Time for it to be a little harder to get out of bed in the morning because it's still so dark outside and the covers are still so enticing. (Snuggling next to a sweet baby does not help in the motivation department.)
I loved back-to-school time when I was a kid. The new clothes, the fresh school supplies, and colorful backpacks and trapper keepers and folders. I had missed my friends all summer long because we didn't have instant communication allowed by cell phones and social media to keep in touch day in and day out. I eagerly anticipated finding out who my teacher would be and who would be in my class. And, let's be honest, I loved school. I was a "good kid" and school was easy for me. I enjoyed learning and words of affirmation from my teachers and parents kept my love tank full.
One of the hardest parts about parenting my boys is how different they are from me (which has nothing to do with biology, or lack thereof) and also how hard learning is for them (which has a lot to do with their circumstances, and perhaps biology.) While many parents around the country are thrilled to have their children back in school (hello, freedom!), for our household, the school year can be a stressful time.
One of our kids does pretty well with transition. He can be thrown into a new environment and make friends quickly. He has a sweet, helpful disposition, and despite his limitations, can function well in a brand new classroom with a new teacher. If it wasn't for some of his delays, you would never know he came from a neglectful environment. He can blend in and make do.
Our other kid, though, struggles with "new." He still refers often to his kindergarten teacher (who was horrible, by the way) and tells me he misses his first-grade teacher. He says he is excited to go back to school, but I also know he's worried about the new teacher, new classroom, new kids, new routine. You see, it takes this kid months, if not years to warm up to you and trust you. When he's in a new environment, and he's feeling insecure or out of control, his default behavior is to act out, disobey, defy, or shut down. Sometimes this kid gets sent to the principal's office. These behaviors happened a handful of times last year (which was a HUGE improvement over the year before), and so I'm always on pins and needles when the new school year begins. I can feel his anxiety.
I read a blog post today written by an adoptive mom. She talked about her kids' attachment issues and how they can translate into problem at school. She shared how she often "briefs" her kids' teachers in the beginning of the year so that they can be aware of her sons' special needs. (You can read the post here: http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2015/09/how-to-talk-to-teachers-about-adoption.html) One of the commenters on this post mentioned an article related to classroom instruction for traumatized kids. In particular, how traumatized kids respond to traditional discipline (to correct behavior), and what they need instead: relationship. The author wrote,
Traditionally, we have interpreted Billy as a disruptive child, pasted the label ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) onto him, and reprimanded him for his “naughty” behavior. What we have failed to see is that Billy cannot settle down on his own. His internal system has not experienced the appropriate patterning to know how to be well behaved like his classmate Andy and Billy does not know he is safe in this world, even if he is now in a safe environment." (We are learning a lot about this from our son's therapist.)
The author goes on to state, "The most effective way to change these patterns comes through safe, nurturing, attuned, and strong human connection. For the student in the classroom, it comes through the teacher-student relationship. The reality is, for our traumatized children to learn and achieve academically, science is showing that they must be engaged at the relational level prior to any academic learning." (I have found this to be 100% true for our oldest child. He simply will not be able to learn effectively, and manage his behavior without feeling like he can trust his teacher and believe that he/she truly cares for him.)
All this to say, I am struggling with the same thing the original blogger wrote about. Should I share some of his background with his new teacher in advance (at the risk of causing him or her to "notice" things they might not have), or do I wait until a situation occurs (because it will) to have this conversation? (I don't carry the same fears for my middle son because he will be getting his older brother's teacher from last year whom we adore and who "gets it" when it comes to our boys.)
I'm torn between wanting to see how my kid will do on his own in the new environment, a little older, a little more secure in himself, a little more trusting in the good intentions of people, and wanting to protect him from unfair judgments and labels. I'm caught between wanting to acknowledge his growth and success in controlling his body and making good choices, and still admit that he struggles with making friends, fitting in, respecting others and following directions.
Sometimes it's hard to separate normal kid behavior from trauma-related responses. I would imagine it's even harder for adults (like their teachers) who don't know them or where they're coming from.
Which brings me back to my original dilemma. Should I share some things in advance with his teacher or not? (Teacher friends, your input here would be extremely appreciated!)
I know that no matter what, for the first year since we've had them, the kids are both genuinely happy to be going back to school. They're starting to love all the things about it that I did when I was their age. We've got all our supplies organized, backpacks stuffed, uniforms washed and folded...All we need now are a good night's sleep and prayers.
I know they will learn. I know they will grow. I know they will make mistakes and get back up and try again. I know that everyday is a new day and they know that, too. I know that my mama fears are echoed throughout the world and that we all just want the very best for our kiddos. I know that when Tuesday morning rolls around, and I become the parent of a 2nd grader, 1st grader, and almost 6 month old I will be the luckiest mama in the world and that everything will be just fine.
I also know I will probably have to mop my floor because, inevitably, someone would've spilled their drink at breakfast.
C'est la vie.
I loved back-to-school time when I was a kid. The new clothes, the fresh school supplies, and colorful backpacks and trapper keepers and folders. I had missed my friends all summer long because we didn't have instant communication allowed by cell phones and social media to keep in touch day in and day out. I eagerly anticipated finding out who my teacher would be and who would be in my class. And, let's be honest, I loved school. I was a "good kid" and school was easy for me. I enjoyed learning and words of affirmation from my teachers and parents kept my love tank full.
One of the hardest parts about parenting my boys is how different they are from me (which has nothing to do with biology, or lack thereof) and also how hard learning is for them (which has a lot to do with their circumstances, and perhaps biology.) While many parents around the country are thrilled to have their children back in school (hello, freedom!), for our household, the school year can be a stressful time.
One of our kids does pretty well with transition. He can be thrown into a new environment and make friends quickly. He has a sweet, helpful disposition, and despite his limitations, can function well in a brand new classroom with a new teacher. If it wasn't for some of his delays, you would never know he came from a neglectful environment. He can blend in and make do.
Our other kid, though, struggles with "new." He still refers often to his kindergarten teacher (who was horrible, by the way) and tells me he misses his first-grade teacher. He says he is excited to go back to school, but I also know he's worried about the new teacher, new classroom, new kids, new routine. You see, it takes this kid months, if not years to warm up to you and trust you. When he's in a new environment, and he's feeling insecure or out of control, his default behavior is to act out, disobey, defy, or shut down. Sometimes this kid gets sent to the principal's office. These behaviors happened a handful of times last year (which was a HUGE improvement over the year before), and so I'm always on pins and needles when the new school year begins. I can feel his anxiety.
I read a blog post today written by an adoptive mom. She talked about her kids' attachment issues and how they can translate into problem at school. She shared how she often "briefs" her kids' teachers in the beginning of the year so that they can be aware of her sons' special needs. (You can read the post here: http://www.rageagainsttheminivan.com/2015/09/how-to-talk-to-teachers-about-adoption.html) One of the commenters on this post mentioned an article related to classroom instruction for traumatized kids. In particular, how traumatized kids respond to traditional discipline (to correct behavior), and what they need instead: relationship. The author wrote,
"When the teacher says to a non-traumatized child, 'Andy, can you please settle down and quietly
have a seat?' Andy has the internal regulatory ability to respond appropriately to his teacher
because trauma has not interrupted his developmental maturation of developing self-regulation
tools and feeling like he is safe in the world. However, when Billy (the traumatized child) is asked the same question, his response is much different. He takes the long way around the
classroom to his seat, he continues to not only talk but projects his voice across the room as if he
is still out in the playground, and once seated continues to squirm and wiggle. (Yes, I have actually witnessed this behavior. It has also been reported to me by my sons' teachers.)
Traditionally, we have interpreted Billy as a disruptive child, pasted the label ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder) onto him, and reprimanded him for his “naughty” behavior. What we have failed to see is that Billy cannot settle down on his own. His internal system has not experienced the appropriate patterning to know how to be well behaved like his classmate Andy and Billy does not know he is safe in this world, even if he is now in a safe environment." (We are learning a lot about this from our son's therapist.)
The author goes on to state, "The most effective way to change these patterns comes through safe, nurturing, attuned, and strong human connection. For the student in the classroom, it comes through the teacher-student relationship. The reality is, for our traumatized children to learn and achieve academically, science is showing that they must be engaged at the relational level prior to any academic learning." (I have found this to be 100% true for our oldest child. He simply will not be able to learn effectively, and manage his behavior without feeling like he can trust his teacher and believe that he/she truly cares for him.)
All this to say, I am struggling with the same thing the original blogger wrote about. Should I share some of his background with his new teacher in advance (at the risk of causing him or her to "notice" things they might not have), or do I wait until a situation occurs (because it will) to have this conversation? (I don't carry the same fears for my middle son because he will be getting his older brother's teacher from last year whom we adore and who "gets it" when it comes to our boys.)
I'm torn between wanting to see how my kid will do on his own in the new environment, a little older, a little more secure in himself, a little more trusting in the good intentions of people, and wanting to protect him from unfair judgments and labels. I'm caught between wanting to acknowledge his growth and success in controlling his body and making good choices, and still admit that he struggles with making friends, fitting in, respecting others and following directions.
Sometimes it's hard to separate normal kid behavior from trauma-related responses. I would imagine it's even harder for adults (like their teachers) who don't know them or where they're coming from.
Which brings me back to my original dilemma. Should I share some things in advance with his teacher or not? (Teacher friends, your input here would be extremely appreciated!)
I know that no matter what, for the first year since we've had them, the kids are both genuinely happy to be going back to school. They're starting to love all the things about it that I did when I was their age. We've got all our supplies organized, backpacks stuffed, uniforms washed and folded...All we need now are a good night's sleep and prayers.
I know they will learn. I know they will grow. I know they will make mistakes and get back up and try again. I know that everyday is a new day and they know that, too. I know that my mama fears are echoed throughout the world and that we all just want the very best for our kiddos. I know that when Tuesday morning rolls around, and I become the parent of a 2nd grader, 1st grader, and almost 6 month old I will be the luckiest mama in the world and that everything will be just fine.
I also know I will probably have to mop my floor because, inevitably, someone would've spilled their drink at breakfast.
C'est la vie.
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
Just Breathe
It's always stressful to me when I know my kids are going to be asked (privately) who they want to live with.
For starters, no matter what they say, it isn't really up to them and so it's almost like a cruel line of questioning. Then there's the "mood" factor. What kind of mood are my kids in? Did they get in trouble that day? Are they generally in a happy state of mind? And then there's the question of whether or not they've seen their mom recently and what that interaction was like. What did she say to them? How did they feel when they were with her? All of this matters when a caseworker or attorney is going to corner them and ask them where they want to live for the rest of their lives.
It's a terrifying few minutes for me when I'm not in the room and someone is asking the kids I've raised for the last 21 months if they like living with us and if they want to stay.
It doesn't scare Rocky. For him it doesn't matter what the kids say because they will end up where a judge deems is the best place for them. And he is confident that the judge will decide they should stay with us.
But for me, at such a crucial point in the case, it matters to me deeply what the kids say.
I want them to want to be with us.
For me, that means they know they're loved, and safe, and cared for, and tended to, and accepted.
It means they feel like a part of our family; like they've been here all along.
We aren't allowed to be present when they're being asked these questions, and so the whole time I feel anxious, and sick, and sweaty.
What if it's one of those off weeks where they say they want to live with their mom? Or someone else?
What if they say we're mean and they don't like us and that we hurt them?
What if they lie? What if they cry? What if they don't understand the gravity of what they're being asked? (of course they don't)
I am on pins and needles when the caseworker returns from talking to them.
She doesn't offer any information....which I just cannot take.
So I half-jokingly ask, "So did they kids say they want to move in with you?"
Take the bait.
Take away my stress.
And then, relief washes over me.
The kids love us.
They want to stay.
And I can breathe again.
For starters, no matter what they say, it isn't really up to them and so it's almost like a cruel line of questioning. Then there's the "mood" factor. What kind of mood are my kids in? Did they get in trouble that day? Are they generally in a happy state of mind? And then there's the question of whether or not they've seen their mom recently and what that interaction was like. What did she say to them? How did they feel when they were with her? All of this matters when a caseworker or attorney is going to corner them and ask them where they want to live for the rest of their lives.
It's a terrifying few minutes for me when I'm not in the room and someone is asking the kids I've raised for the last 21 months if they like living with us and if they want to stay.
It doesn't scare Rocky. For him it doesn't matter what the kids say because they will end up where a judge deems is the best place for them. And he is confident that the judge will decide they should stay with us.
But for me, at such a crucial point in the case, it matters to me deeply what the kids say.
I want them to want to be with us.
For me, that means they know they're loved, and safe, and cared for, and tended to, and accepted.
It means they feel like a part of our family; like they've been here all along.
We aren't allowed to be present when they're being asked these questions, and so the whole time I feel anxious, and sick, and sweaty.
What if it's one of those off weeks where they say they want to live with their mom? Or someone else?
What if they say we're mean and they don't like us and that we hurt them?
What if they lie? What if they cry? What if they don't understand the gravity of what they're being asked? (of course they don't)
I am on pins and needles when the caseworker returns from talking to them.
She doesn't offer any information....which I just cannot take.
So I half-jokingly ask, "So did they kids say they want to move in with you?"
Take the bait.
Take away my stress.
And then, relief washes over me.
The kids love us.
They want to stay.
And I can breathe again.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Down in the Valley
Monday was my brother's birthday.
It was also the day that Rocky and I finally got to testify in our boys' termination case.
The night before was wrought with emotions. For me, I was overcome with anxiety and fear, and confused by an overwhelming resentment and irritation I felt towards Rocky (for absolutely no reason at all). After confessing this to my best friend, she encouraged me to talk to Rocky. I told him how I was feeling, and broke down in tears as he prayed over me, us, our home and the looming trial.
It's a beautiful thing when your spouse loves you in your most vulnerable moments; when they're able to recognize spiritual attack for what it is.
The moment he finished praying a weight was lifted and I felt better. I was ready for court. Ready to get it over with after waiting 6 long months for our turn to testify.
When we arrived at court we were briefed by the State's attorney and GAL (the kids' attorney). They ran through the questions we would be asked, and tried to prepare us for questions the parents' attorneys might ask. That was my biggest worry, really. What would mom's attorney ask me? How would she attack me, or try to poke holes in our case for adoption?
The attorney let me know that he would be calling me first to testify. Rocky would have to wait outside. I would have no friendly face, no support system. I would be sworn in, seated in the box next to the judge, and in front of my boys' parents I would be asked about our life together.
First, the State's attorney.
What do the boys call you?
Have they met your extended family? What do they call your family members?
Do they have friends? Who? Where?
How are they doing in school?
Tell me about their special needs.
Are they meeting with a therapist? Are you? How is that going?
Have the boys been given a mental health diagnosis? How does that manifest itself?
Do you go on vacation together?
Who do the boys say they want to live with?
Do you want to adopt the boys? Why?
Then the mom's attorney.
You've stated the boys call you "mom." Do you also acknowledge that she [pointing] is their mom?
You've stated that you organize extra visits with their mother. How often does that happen? Is it true that your husband does most of the arranging, transporting and supervising of these visits?
Have you talked to the boys about how they might face discrimination when they get older? How did you do that? How do you plan on addressing this in the future?
Is it true that [the older child] (20 months ago) said inappropriate, sexually explicit things at school? Is it true that he also said his foster dad had done something to him?
You've stated you take the kids to church every Sunday. Did you ever talk to their mom about her family's religious beliefs?
[The youngest] acted out violently towards babies when his last biologic sibling was born. Has he reacted similarly since you've had your baby?
She questioned me aggressively, trying to defeat me, pound me down to remind me that I'm not their mom. I pushed back. I told the ugly truth. I corrected her "facts."
And then I was dismissed, and it was Rocky's turn.
He was questioned for half the amount of time.
And he was relieved and glad it was over.
And I was disappointed.
They didn't ask me the most important questions. Questions like,
What is their favorite thing to do?
What makes them laugh?
What do they say they want to be when they grow up?
How do you comfort them when they're sad and miss their family?
When they have a victory, how do you celebrate with them?
When they have a setback, how do they overcome it?
What does your day-to-day life look like?
What's your greatest desire for their future?
You see, I wanted them to see my kids for who they are, not what they are. A statistic. Two kids out of eight who have been removed. Little black boys living with a white family, who just had a biological child of their own.
They didn't see them as individuals. As little boys who have overcome tremendous adversity, and who will have to continue to do so for the rest of their lives. They didn't see a 6 and 7 year old who love playing all kinds of sports, and watching movies and playing Legos and drawing. They didn't see sweet future men who love to help mom clean, and cook, and fold laundry. They didn't see two capable, kind, big brothers, who cater to their baby brother when he cries and who are already trying to teach him how to play basketball.
They didn't see them.
They didn't see us.
Court is there to decide where the boys will be a family.
But we already are one.
Every day for the last 638 days we have very much been a family and I have very much been their mom.
We have met every need, comforted every worry, encouraged every doubt, bandaged every wound, cured every belly ache, attended every school meeting, been available for every therapy session and family visitation, advocated every right, championed every success, grieved every failure...
We are a family.
We don't need a court to tell us that.
What we do need is for them to decide to allow us to remain a family.
And for that, all I can do is wait. And pray. And ask the God of the universe to go before us and make a way for these boys, whom He has loved far longer than I have.
I have to believe He will make a way...
It was also the day that Rocky and I finally got to testify in our boys' termination case.
The night before was wrought with emotions. For me, I was overcome with anxiety and fear, and confused by an overwhelming resentment and irritation I felt towards Rocky (for absolutely no reason at all). After confessing this to my best friend, she encouraged me to talk to Rocky. I told him how I was feeling, and broke down in tears as he prayed over me, us, our home and the looming trial.
It's a beautiful thing when your spouse loves you in your most vulnerable moments; when they're able to recognize spiritual attack for what it is.
The moment he finished praying a weight was lifted and I felt better. I was ready for court. Ready to get it over with after waiting 6 long months for our turn to testify.
When we arrived at court we were briefed by the State's attorney and GAL (the kids' attorney). They ran through the questions we would be asked, and tried to prepare us for questions the parents' attorneys might ask. That was my biggest worry, really. What would mom's attorney ask me? How would she attack me, or try to poke holes in our case for adoption?
The attorney let me know that he would be calling me first to testify. Rocky would have to wait outside. I would have no friendly face, no support system. I would be sworn in, seated in the box next to the judge, and in front of my boys' parents I would be asked about our life together.
First, the State's attorney.
What do the boys call you?
Have they met your extended family? What do they call your family members?
Do they have friends? Who? Where?
How are they doing in school?
Tell me about their special needs.
Are they meeting with a therapist? Are you? How is that going?
Have the boys been given a mental health diagnosis? How does that manifest itself?
Do you go on vacation together?
Who do the boys say they want to live with?
Do you want to adopt the boys? Why?
Then the mom's attorney.
You've stated the boys call you "mom." Do you also acknowledge that she [pointing] is their mom?
You've stated that you organize extra visits with their mother. How often does that happen? Is it true that your husband does most of the arranging, transporting and supervising of these visits?
Have you talked to the boys about how they might face discrimination when they get older? How did you do that? How do you plan on addressing this in the future?
Is it true that [the older child] (20 months ago) said inappropriate, sexually explicit things at school? Is it true that he also said his foster dad had done something to him?
You've stated you take the kids to church every Sunday. Did you ever talk to their mom about her family's religious beliefs?
[The youngest] acted out violently towards babies when his last biologic sibling was born. Has he reacted similarly since you've had your baby?
She questioned me aggressively, trying to defeat me, pound me down to remind me that I'm not their mom. I pushed back. I told the ugly truth. I corrected her "facts."
And then I was dismissed, and it was Rocky's turn.
He was questioned for half the amount of time.
And he was relieved and glad it was over.
And I was disappointed.
They didn't ask me the most important questions. Questions like,
What is their favorite thing to do?
What makes them laugh?
What do they say they want to be when they grow up?
How do you comfort them when they're sad and miss their family?
When they have a victory, how do you celebrate with them?
When they have a setback, how do they overcome it?
What does your day-to-day life look like?
What's your greatest desire for their future?
You see, I wanted them to see my kids for who they are, not what they are. A statistic. Two kids out of eight who have been removed. Little black boys living with a white family, who just had a biological child of their own.
They didn't see them as individuals. As little boys who have overcome tremendous adversity, and who will have to continue to do so for the rest of their lives. They didn't see a 6 and 7 year old who love playing all kinds of sports, and watching movies and playing Legos and drawing. They didn't see sweet future men who love to help mom clean, and cook, and fold laundry. They didn't see two capable, kind, big brothers, who cater to their baby brother when he cries and who are already trying to teach him how to play basketball.
They didn't see them.
They didn't see us.
Court is there to decide where the boys will be a family.
But we already are one.
Every day for the last 638 days we have very much been a family and I have very much been their mom.
We have met every need, comforted every worry, encouraged every doubt, bandaged every wound, cured every belly ache, attended every school meeting, been available for every therapy session and family visitation, advocated every right, championed every success, grieved every failure...
We are a family.
We don't need a court to tell us that.
What we do need is for them to decide to allow us to remain a family.
And for that, all I can do is wait. And pray. And ask the God of the universe to go before us and make a way for these boys, whom He has loved far longer than I have.
I have to believe He will make a way...
"Even when I walk through the darkest valley,
I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.
Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me."
(Psalm 23:4)
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