ABC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C'est la vie.

 

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.

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...

"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)

Amazing Grace (How Sweet the Sound)

I didn't want little boys.

When we were filling out all the paperwork to become foster parents I knew I didn't want little boys.

I wanted siblings, sure. I envisioned a boy and a girl, probably because I grew up with a little brother. It's not the gender that I was opposed to, specifically. It was the "little." I wanted older, hard-to-place kids. Kids that weren't "cute" anymore, who maybe were misunderstood or hard to reach. (What I really wanted was a baby, but I knew we were not equipped for that yet and I was determined to try for one on my own). I knew myself. I wanted babies or older kids. No in-betweeners.

When we got that call that Monday morning from our foster agency and the voice on the other end of the phone said, "We have four siblings; two little girls and two little boys. Can you take either pair?" all I could feel was adrenaline, and sadness for these kids, but mostly adrenaline. It was happening. They had called us. These kids needed a home. But how should we decide between the boys or the girls?

Age.

We chose the older kids. The boys.

They were older by a small margin that made becoming instant parents to two kids seem more manageable.

They were still little and we were ill-prepared to care for them.

But we moved, and breathed, and slept little those first few days and weeks. We found a jagged rhythm that mostly worked. There was one step forward and two steps back. Some days there were leaps back. Days where Rocky and I would look at each other with sheer exhaustion, and sometimes even regret.

They were so little. So traumatized. They needed so much. And we were spent.

And sometimes they hated us, and sometimes, we didn't like them very much either.

And it's taken me almost two years to admit that.

To admit that to myself, and to others. Maybe even to God.

You know what has finally allowed me to say that?

Having Owen.

Having Owen has made me realize that it's completely normal to sometimes not like your children (and it's not because I've felt that way with Owen...yet). I wasn't sure, initially, if I had so much trouble with feeling the way I did because it was accompanied by guilt (They were foster kids, after all. How could I judge them for acting out and saying hurtful things?) or because it just didn't seem likely that a mother could love her children in one moment and then not be able to stand the sight of them in the next.

Some days with the boys felt like I was trapped in a prison that I had built for myself. How could I ask to be freed of the thing I had pursued unabashedly?

Having Owen opened my eyes, and heart, to the complexity and depth of a mother's love for her child(ren). It made it okay for me to trudge through the muddiness of my feelings for the boys. It made me realize, now 4 months postpartum, how much I really do love them.

It has been such a relief for that love to be confirmed.

It sounds silly, I know. Clearly I love them. I've always loved them on some level (it ebbs and flows and favors one over the other on any given day or moment, as most parents can attest to). But this time, now, I knew it was real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit. My love for them has been proven to be real.

The love I have for Owen shined a light on the depth of my love for the boys.

Yes, it's a different kind of love.

At first, I was convinced it was different in a lesser way, a horrible way. I was ashamed and disturbed by how much I loved Owen compared to the boys. Frustrated that all the things people had warned me about ("Just wait until you have your own. You'll see that you can't/won't/don't love them the same.") was true.

I was horrified.

But then, something happened. Somewhere over the last month, as I struggled, and talked to Rocky and friends, and prayed, and watched from the sidelines, I have fallen in love with my boys all over again.

It's like what was once lost has been found.

Was it the pregnancy hormones finally leaving my system?

Was it the newness of Owen, and the overwhelming, intoxicating love I felt for him wearing off?

Was it the self-reflection and prayers offered up, confessions and pleadings to God for the feelings to go away?

Was it the unending support offered by my husband and friends, who assured me that I wasn't wrong, or evil, or crazy, or abnormal?

Was it the amazing grace given by a Holy and Blameless Creator, who brought me into the light after walking for a time through a dark valley?

My soul tells me it's all of those things.

It's truth, and forgiveness, and understanding and grace; for my kids, for myself, for our unique family dynamic.

Some days it's still really hard to parent little kids. Some days it's excruciation to be a foster parent, a stand-in who is unappreciated and resented. Some days the lack of progress after nearly two years seems overwhelming and I want to throw my hands up in the air and give up. Some days, I don't like my kids.

But when I lay my head down at night, and I think about God and I think about our day and regret the kind of parent I was (or wasn't), I pray for more.

More time.

More patience.

More grace.

More kids.

They're still so little, but they're growing up so fast. They may not be on par with their peers (just yet), and they may need to be reminded and scolded and guided and molded, but they're my kids. And I love them. And I miss them when they're gone, and I walk by their bedroom door at night and see them sleeping softly in their beds and I can't believe how big they are. So big, and yet so little.

These boys of mine....

I never did want little boys.

But God knows what we need, doesn't He?

And I am so, so thankful that He does.

Sweet Child O' Mine

(Drafted in April and somehow never published)

I always though I was good at giving gifts. Friends birthdays, Christmas, "just because" gifts.

Since moving to Chicago and being a part of our new church, I've realized that I'm not that great at giving gifts. It's not my strong point. Not the way I show love to others. Which makes it hard when it seems like everyone is constantly showering me with gifts. Baby clothes and toys, pampering stuff for new moms, unlimited time and help and support as our family transitioned from 4 to 5. I, we, have been blessed beyond measure. Our community has taken care of us, their own. We have wanted for nothing.

And life has been good. Full. Whole. Entirely consuming.

Many things have kept me away from writing here. Exhaustion. Lack of time. Wanting to snuggle my newborn instead of hanging out online. But I think the thing that's prevented me from writing more than anything is the lack of words. The writer's block. How on earth do I put down in writing what my heart and soul cannot even grasp? The gift we have been given from the greatest Giver of all.

Our boy, Owen Samuel Stone, came quietly into the world on his due date, March 17, 2015, at 4:48 p.m. and we all instantly fell head-over-heels in love. He was (is) absolutely perfect in every way. Strong, healthy, impossibly gorgeous. Our baby was finally here!

I have struggled to process my overwhelming, all-consuming love for this child. The way his body curls up into a ball in my chest after he's nursed. The way he breathes softly and warmly on my neck when I hold him and pat his back. The way he smiles and laughs in his sleep. The way he is comforted out of tears by my voice, or my scent, or my touch. I am daily in awe, and tears, at this beautiful boy.

How do you put into words the way you feel about the greatest gift you've ever received?

How do you write a blog post about the deepest love you've ever felt?

There just aren't words.

So I will simply say that we are so happy. We are over-the-moon, swimming in baby giggles and milk comas, oohing and ahhing at every new thing Owen does, staring at him while he sleeps as our eyes fill with tears.

We are so, so happy.

Sitting, Wishing, Waiting

Well, I'm two days away from my due date and still no sign of baby. I know labor can start at any minute, but it feels like he will never come out. I guess I have made him too comfortable a home in the safety of my belly.

I've had two glorious weeks off work to prepare for his arrival. Two weeks of nesting, naps and daydreaming about what he will look like, how he will feel in my arms, how different our lives will be once he's here. It still feels like a fantasy...

A week and a half ago I experienced symptoms that made me think he would be here early. So mom and sister hopped in the car and headed out here, making sure to not miss his birth. While I feel bad that they rushed out here with an urgency that apparently was unfounded, I've been thankful for their company, their help and just to have them here with me during this time. There's nothing like the support and camaraderie of your people.

The boys, especially our little one, has become impatient with the baby (as we all have). Everyday he talks to my belly multiple times, imploring his brother to "Come out!" He has all kinds of ideas as to why he hasn't come out yet. "Is he sleeping mom?" "Maybe he's putting he clothes on." "Is he going to stay in there forever?" "Mom, when the baby comes out I'm going to watch him play, and sleep and eat."

We are all eagerly awaiting his arrival...

As for me, my feet are unrecognizable. I can barely squeeze them into flip flops anymore and shoelaces have to be opened far and wide in order to get my foot into my tennis shoes. I've never had rolls on the tops of my feet before; it's a feeling I will be happy to not have anymore once baby arrives. I'm still doing more than maybe I should (and certainly more than Rocky wants me to do), but I can't just sit around all day. There's still laundry to be washed, meals to be made, cleaning to get done. Plus, it keeps my mind off the longing of wishing this labor thing would commence already.

Rocky has been amazing, as usual. Working around the clock at his normal 9 to 5, coming home and helping with dinner and homework, then working on the house so that things are in better condition for when baby gets here. I think these are also the way he distracts himself from the waiting game. He wants to hold his son so bad. For 10 months I've been holding him in my own way; Rocky has been ready, and is pining to hold his baby in his arms.

We all continue along, in our own ways, to kill the time between now and a new day.

I'm trying to take the advice of my mama friends. "Enjoy this time!" "Sleep! Eat! Rest! Watch TV!" "Everything is going to change; it's going to get harder. Savor these last few days." I'll admit it's hard to do. I feel ready. I've felt ready. We've wanted this for years. Plus, my body is just done. Between the swelling and the carpal tunnel I've developed in my right hand, things are getting fairly uncomfortable.

I know he's worth every ache, pain and discomfort. I know that he's the answer to so many prayers. I know that this time won't last forever; he's coming soon.

And we wait, with hopeful expectation, with arms outstretched to hold him.

We wait for our little prince to make his entrance, to make even more whole a family who has wanted him since before time.

Come, sweet baby. The whole world is waiting for you.

Winter

It's been two weeks since the last post, the news that our day in court had been postponed for another three months. We've had time to grieve, be angry and move on to everyday normal life. Things have been quiet, uneventful even. Everything feels normal; nothing lurking under the surface, no shoe waiting to be dropped, no chaos about to ensue. It's been nice.

We've been cooped up for weeks now due to inclement weather and freezing temperatures. We've seen more snow and ice in the last few weeks than we have for the entire winter. Temperatures have recently begun to dip into the negative, making it painful to even walk to and from the garage to get into the car. Sometimes even our eyeballs and teeth hurt.

It's hard to have little boys full of energy in a city where winter is a good 6 months long. It's hard on moms and dads who have to entertain, mediate, engage and discipline because their kids are so bored that they pick fights with one another. Though it's been a great two weeks, it's also been exhausting. I'm sure my third-trimester fatigue makes matters worse.

Our due date is quickly approaching, and yet it feels like forever away, just out of reach. Rocky has been working relentlessly on nights and weekends to get the nursery ready, build us a laundry room upstairs, and repair drywall and paint in areas that were long overdue for such attention. He is truly my rock and my hero; He loves our family well, and serves me in a way that makes me feel loved and cherished way down in my very soul. In every way that a husband should be, he is Jesus to me.

The boys have been doing tremendously well in school. Our big boy is reading more and more words everyday and was overcome with joy the other night when he was able to read his own homework instructions. It made my heart swell with joy that he was proud of himself instead of feeling embarrassed or inadequate by his delays. His new-found confidence is every parent's dream. Our little one is counting and learning math and can now write his own name without a sample and spell it out-loud without help. We're still working on identifying all letters of the alphabet and struggling to write some numbers, but I see improvements everyday and I'm so proud to be their mom.

As for me, well I'm trying to enjoy the last few weeks of being pregnant. It's hard to do so when I'm stuck at work sitting in a very uncomfortable chair, staring at a computer screen for 7 hours a day. I'm very much counting down the days until I can rest and nest at home in preparation for baby boy's arrival. Only 6 more work days to go! (This countdown has been what's getting me through...)

This has all been such an amazing experience that I feel simultaneously excited and anxious to hold onto it as long as I can. We never expected this baby, and I'm definitely treating it as if it will be my only pregnancy, so I am savoring even the unpleasant parts knowing that this is such an honor and a privilege. Though I am so looking forward to holding my sweet baby in my arms (and truly hoping he comes a little early!), I'm also clinging to his last few weeks in the womb; protected, sheltered, safe. All the things I cannot provide once he's here. All the things I will have to pray to God to provide for him instead.

It's very scary to be a parent, you know. You believe the lie that no one loves your kids more than you do, and that you know best. But the reality is that God loves my children more than I can ever imagine, and His way is the best way. Even when I can't see it. Even when I don't understand. Even when I don't agree. I have to believe that this is true. It is my only comfort when my children suffer an injustice. Knowing that God loves them more, and has a plan for their life that I cannot see, brings me a peace that I otherwise would not have.

Recently, several of our friends have been faced with some tremendous struggles, health-wise. Things that make you lift your eyes up to the heavens and ask, "Why, God? Why did this have to happen to this person?" It's a pointless question, I know, but when we're faced with such tragedy and uncertainty and fear, it's the only question we can think to ask, as if having an answer would bring comfort. We've been stretched as a church, and having our faith grown and deepen in ways that would not have occurred had it not been for the hardships we've encountered, both in our own lives and in our congregation. We're becoming a church that prays for one another, that expects healing, that seeks God in everything. With this, we are being transformed. Our homes, our marriages, our communities are feeling the ripple effect from this tiny pocket of praying immigrant believers in this city. 

With that being said, I humbly ask that you pray alongside us for the following:

-That the boys' court date would stand and that a resolution in their favor would be reached that day

-Healing for our friends suffering from chronic and dangerous health issues

-Provision for our friends who are suffering with finances and unemployment

-A smooth delivery and a healthy baby for us

-And finally, that God would continue to grow and empower our church in this city, for His glory

We cannot do this without the prayers and support of other believers. We are one church, one body, one tribe. May God keep us united, even in our separation. Amen.