Dear Daughter: It’s OK to hurt.

Tonight I sat on the couch with my broken little girl and held her while she cried. Tonight we watched a movie and held a puppy while we waited for the grief to subside.  Tonight, once again, I told her that it’s OK to hurt.

As a mother, my instinct is to kiss boo boos and dry tears.  It hurts me to see my children hurt.  I want to pull them to my chest and keep them far from any one or any place that would ever do them harm.  The problem is that my children came from the place of harm.   My children were born to the family that hurt them.  I can do everything in my power to change their present and future but I can’t erase their history.

Adoptive families often struggle with how much contact to have with their birth families.  Open adoptions are a great option for many people but in cases where children were adopted from foster care there are often safety concerns and painful histories that have to be taken into consideration.  My husband and I have chosen not to force contact with our kids’ biological parents until our kids ask for it.  They know that they are adopted and when the time comes that they want to reach out, assuming that it is safe and healthy, we will support them.  In the meantime, we continue to cultivate a relationship with their biological siblings.  Those kids love my children and did not do anything to deserve their family being torn apart.  We promised them that we would work hard to maintain their relationships with our kids and we have stood by that.  It hasn’t been easy though. 

This weekend we had a visit with some of Bradley and Alyssa’s siblings.  The kids looked forward to it for days and Alyssa literally jumped up and down and started dancing in the middle of the restaurant when she saw them pull up.  She spent an hour and half with her sister, T, taking turns braiding and rebraiding each other’s hair.  They have a special connection and adore each other even though they are not able to connect as often as they would like.  

When it was time to go, Alyssa clung to T like her life depended on it and she sobbed.  Her little heart broke like it did when she first lost her birth family and like it does every time we have to say good bye.  Even though she knows that she will see them again, it hurt.  Even though she was promised a phone call in the next few days, it hurt.  The whole thing just hurts. 

I watched my husband scoop her up in his big, gentle arms to carry her to the car and I wondered for a moment if it was worth it.  It makes no sense to bring your child to a visit knowing that she will leave in tears. The mama bear in me wants to hole up in a cave and never come back so that she won’t hurt again.  Instead, I looked her in the eyes and told her that it was ok to be sad about leaving. 

When we got home we cuddled on the couch and watched a movie while she tried to sort things out.  That night she raged and said she hated me.  In the morning she asked if I remembered the time that she was really sad after seeing her sister.  I told her again that it’s ok to hurt sometimes.

I try not to tell Alyssa that it will be ok because I don’t know that it will.  I don’t attempt to stop the tears because they exist for a reason.  It would not be fair for me to deny that her truth is painful.  Instead, I give her permission to grieve and I sit with her until the storm passes.

I want my kids to grow up knowing that they don’t always have to run from pain.  I want my children to learn to love bravely and that means embracing risk.  We mediate that risk by preparing for visits, planning downtime afterwards and monitoring closely what is said but we know that seeing their siblings may open up old wounds.  If you aren’t intimately acquainted with adoption, that may seem reckless. We understand though that the benefit of love is greater than the cost.

Over the past few years I have had to learn the lesson that Alyssa is learning now.  Sometimes love hurts but it is worth it.  Foster children may leave and take a piece of your heart but it is worth it because what remains is better than the whole you had before.  Friends may walk away but it is still worth it to trust and feel connection with others.  The epilepsy could win but it is worth it to love Alyssa. 

It is better to love and hurt than to never love. Painful goodbyes mean that you had a chance to say hello.  Even if it hurts to leave, an evening spent braiding your sister’s hair is worth it. It would be easier to walk away and hope that she forgets about her birth family but that’s not what is best for my daughter.  I want her to know that even if they can’t grow up together like they should have, loving your siblings is worth it. It’s ok to hurt because that means that you loved.

Let's continue this conversation on Facebook and in the comments below.

High Heels in Church

   The day the social worker brought my daughter home, she was a filthy mess.  Her hair was matted and dirty.  She wore a stained, white crop top with a denim mini skirt.  She had on grungy, white heels that were so high I was surprised she could walk in them.  She looked like a mini hooker but she was two.  I looked at this tiny, broken child and my heart broke for her. The first thing I did with Alyssa was get her into a bubble bath and some clean clothes.  As a foster parent I had a closet stocked with various sizes of clothes I might need but I didn’t have any shoes that fit her.  The next day we went shopping for some age appropriate flats and she never wore heels again until the week before Christmas.

   Many parents think it is cute for little girls to play dress up in heels or wear the kind of clothes that an older teen might wear. For a typical child, there’s probably no harm in that.  I am personally not a fan of that kind of wardrobe for a little kid but I would never judge another family’s choice on the matter.  Alyssa has never been typical though.  She understood, even at that young age, that her value and beauty were intricately linked to her body.  She would prance around in a very adult way looking for reinforcement and would lift her shirt while asking if she was pretty. 

Initially I didn’t know how long Alyssa would be staying with me but I knew that I wanted to spend whatever time I had teaching her that her value is not defined by her body.  I bought her outfits that were modest but cute enough that people would stop to comment about how pretty she was.  I purposefully praised her when she made good choices or figured something out.  It was never about shaming the behaviors or dress from her previous life; it was all about expanding her definition of beauty to also include intelligence, compassion and perseverance. Even after the adoption we have continued working to instill those values.

   This year, on Small Business Saturday, I bought Alyssa a beautiful holiday dress from one of my favorite little shops.  She had a lead role in the church Christmas program as the person holding the letter N in Noel.  (Her performance was magical by the way.)  I really meant to find her some new shoes to go along with the dress since all of the ones I bought in August are too small now but the chaos of life won out.  That’s how I found myself frantically trying to find dress shoes at one of the two stores in our little town on the Saturday night before the show. Of course, since I was in a bind there was almost nothing in her size that wasn’t hot pink or just strange.  I finally found a pair of shiny black shoes with a bow on the toes.  The problem was that they were heals.

The heels.

   I stood in the aisle holding those little shoes and flashed back to the exploited little girl who came home to me four years ago. I tried them on Alyssa then took them off, disappointed that they fit. When my husband returned from his wandering, I showed the shoes him, expecting an equally distraught reaction.  I hoped that he would at least think that she was far too young to be prancing through the church in half inch heels.  Instead he questioned whether she would fall wearing them.  I explained what the shoes represented but they didn’t mean that to him.

   In the end, because there was literally no other option, we went home with the shoes.  I planned to leave early enough to stop someone in the city on our way to church the next morning for something, anything, else though.  Unfortunately, I am horrible at mornings and we barely got out of the house in time for the service. In front of God, my parents and the 100 other people in the congregation, my little girl stumbled to the stage wearing heels. 

My stars: Alyssa and Bradley holding the N and backwards E. 

   The performance was fantastic.  My kids were off beat but proud.  After the service, we had a church potluck where Alyssa eventually ditched the shoes because she couldn’t run 10 feet in them without toppling over.  In spite of the dreaded high heels, it was a really good day.

   It’s weird how sometimes the things we think represent everything evil end up being completely benign. Alyssa was no less innocent wearing heels than she would have been barefoot.  (If I wrote a political blog, I could expand that analogy to many other topics but we’ll stick to shoes for now.)  What happened to her was wrong.  The path that brought Alyssa to my door that day is one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The shoes, as distasteful as they were, were only bad because I associated them with the people who put them on her.

That smile.

   It was easier when she was little and simply wore whatever I put her in.  I bought frilly dresses and she twirled.  I told her she was beautiful and she believed me.  I think that this is where the real work starts.  I can’t rely on simple rules, like only flat shoes and one piece swimsuits, to teach her to be the kind of lady I hope I’m raising.  We have to go farther and talk about the actual qualities that we are working towards and how we know if we have achieved them.  I want her to grow up believing that she is beautiful in both body and spirit, that she can be proud of her looks while not being defined by them.  I want her to feel free to express her personality through her style while understanding that clothes can only say so much. I want her to know that she was radiant on the stage that Sunday because her smile lit up the sanctuary, and the heels were just an accessory that I’m learning to live with.

Our family

In hindsight, I probably should have asked them to hold still
for a picture BEFORE they hit the dessert table.

Adoption & Epilepsy

Ask any adoptive parent about their home study and they will tell you about the invasive questions they were asked.  Most of us have stories of the awkwardness of a complete stranger sitting calmly in our living rooms while demanding information that would make even the most open person blush.  It is the adoption equivalent of prenatal care.  Birth mothers have to put their feet up in the stirrups for the OB/GYN but we have to open our nightstand drawers for a social worker. 

Looking back, the part of my home study that stands out the most is not the section with the intimate questions, it was the discussion about the children we would someday take into our home.  I vividly remember the social worker asking us if we were interested in taking in children with special needs.  My husband and I had spoken at length on the topic ahead of time and told her that we were willing to take on learning disabilities or minor challenges.  I remember saying that I admired the families that fostered and adopted kids with special needs but that just wasn’t us.  I said it wouldn’t fit our lifestyle. It all feels pretty ironic now.

When I was pregnant with my son, I prayed that he would be healthy and did everything I could to give him the best shot at a good start.  I stayed pretty healthy, went to my appointments, decorated a nursery and ate animal cookies every time my developing baby demanded them. Still, I knew that there was always a chance that something would happen and we could face challenges.  Even when you do everything you can to improve the odds, childbirth really is something of a crapshoot. Adoption is different though.  A professional comes to your home and writes out exactly what you are looking for in a child. She asks you about race and age and gender.  You get a choice about disabilities, except when you don’t.

Finding out that your child has a disability can be devastating for any parent.  We often go through the stages of grief much like you would after a death but we can cycle back through them with each new limitation, emergency or worsening prognosis.  We have to learn to live in Holland and give up on dreams that we cherished since we ourselves were children.  Often all of this is done while in crisis so we do not have the time to sit down and fall apart because we are fighting desperately for our children’s lives and futures. There will come a time when we adjust to this new life but the initiation is brutal and leaves wounds that never really heal. 

Looking back I think that our adoption experience complicated how I processed Alyssa’s diagnosis.  No parent wants their child to have disabilities but we had specifically requested a kid that was “normal.”  When I got the call about Alyssa, her case worker explicitly stated that she did not have epilepsy.  We had these grand life plans that didn’t involve constant trips to doctors and therapies or always having to live near modern medical facilities.  We did something good by choosing to foster and adopt so it didn’t seem fair that the child we received was not the one we asked for. I was angry about the unfairness of it all for a very long time.

I relate to the other parents of children with special needs on many levels but I don’t bear the guilt of having been the one to pass on Alyssa’s genetic disorder or the constant questions of if it was something I did caused her problems.  I relate to adoptive parents too but our story isn’t just about adoption anymore.  I switch back and forth between groups depending on the support I need at the moment.  It is hard to find your tribe when you really fit somewhere in the middle and it is easy to feel alone when there isn’t a group with your name on it.

I don’t say all of this to make anyone feel sorry for us.  I am not asking for pity or pats on the back or patronizing comments about how God only gives special kids to special people.  I have realized over the past few weeks that there are many other families that find themselves in our position and I think maybe they struggle like I have.  I’m writing this tonight for the people who aren’t quite sure what group they belong to.  I’m writing to the mother who is raging at God for rewarding her good deeds with the chance to watch her child die.  I’m writing this for the people that lay awake at night wondering what they did to deserve this horror.  I’m writing this for the person who feels guilty because they are so angry and overwhelmed when that gets mixed up with the fear and grief.  I’m writing this to the parent that feels alone because I want you to know that I’m here too.  

We said exactly what we could handle and life didn’t listen.  We had great plans for the families we were building but those changed when the special needs surfaced. It is confusing and hard and not at all fair.  I can tell you though that it will eventually get better.  I know you didn’t ask for these trials but I also believe that you can make it through.  Give yourself some grace, accept the messiness and just keep breathing. 

The Problem with Re-homing

A few months ago, Rep. Justin Harris from Arkansas and his wife made national news when it was revealed that they had re-homed their two adopted daughters.  For those who haven’t been following the story, Harris allegedly abused his political power to push through an adoption that almost every professional involved believed was a bad fit.  After the adoption, the girls’ behavior grew worse.  A former babysitter even claims the Harrises believed their daughters were demon possessed and called in exorcists from out of state to fix the children.  Eventually, the couple realized that they were unable to handle the complex psychological problems that the girls’ had so they gave them to another couple where at least one of them was sexually abused.  The girls have now been adopted again and are reportedly doing well.

The Harris adoption fiasco has bothered me since the news first broke.  I am appalled that this man thinks himself too good to go through the proper channels and adopt children that are a healthy match for his family.  This couple might have been fine adoptive parents to the right kids.  Instead they met a birthmother in a parking lot, claimed religious discrimination when CPS told them that prayer was not enough to help these girls, then allegedly held up the budget of the entire agency until the placement was approved. What they failed to understand is that waiting children do not only need to be adopted; they need to be adopted by families who are appropriate for them and who are trained to deal with complex trauma.  Kids who have been severely abused or neglected cannot be parented like typical children and they deserve parents who have put in the time and effort to prepare for that.

The Harrises claim that they reached out for help after the adoption and were not able to access the services their daughters needed.  One of the girls had been diagnosed with reactive attachment disorder, or RAD, and her behaviors were terrifying the family. Children with RAD have typically experienced so much abuse or neglect that they are unable to form healthy attachments.  They can be extremely violent even at very young ages.  Often they become homicidal or suicidal and everyone in the home is at risk of severe harm.  Stories abound of children with RAD killing pets, sexually abusing siblings, burning down homes with people inside, or attempting suicide.  Unfortunately, the intense treatments that these kids need are few and far between and when a parent is able to find a place that specializes in these kinds of issues, Medicaid* often refuses to cover the cost.  Instead, children with RAD are bounced between inadequate providers or sent home where they are a danger to their family and themselves.

Like many parents who are struggling with a child who has RAD, the Harrises claim that they reached out to CPS because they did not know what else to do with their children.  They say that they were told that if they relinquished their parental rights to their children, they would be charged with child abandonment.  The problem is that they were not given any other options.  While my personal opinion of the Harrises is less generous, I truly believe that the majority of adoptive parents who consider rehoming are not bad people who simply grew tired of the children they adopted.  Many of them are good people who wanted to help kids and build their families but instead find themselves in desperate situations with nowhere to turn.

I wrote recently about my own experience with a therapist who assumed that I should “just re-adopt out” my daughter because things were difficult.  It was insulting because the suggestion meant that he did not see my family as one worth preserving.  I didn’t go in as someone who was scared for her life or that of her other children.  I went to him as a grieving mother who was trying to make sense of a devastating diagnosis.  He made a recommendation that he would never have made to a biological parent simply because he placed a lower value on the relationship I have with my adopted daughter than the one I have with my biological son.  That attitude is unacceptable but it is sadly prevalent among the people that adoptive parents reach out to for support.  For example, when I interned at an inpatient psychiatric hospital, I saw countless children and adolescents with very severe mental problems who were moved to long-term residential treatment centers.  The only time it was ever suggested that a child be placed with a new family instead of receiving treatment was when someone noticed the adoption box was checked in their chart. 

The problem with rehoming, as it currently exists, is that it fails both the children and the adoptive parents.  Every time a child is placed with a new family, they suffer a new loss and it becomes harder for them to trust that they will ever be truly loved by anyone.  In addition, many of the kids who find themselves in new homes are later abused or abandoned again.  With no government or agency oversight to make sure that the new homes are safe for these children, the outcomes can be devastating.

That the problem of rehoming exist in the magnitude it does is evidence that there is a problem with the child welfare system.  When parents go through classes to foster-adopt, we are promised help after the adoption.  We are told that we can take in kids from hard places because we will have access to all of the resources we need to parent them.  We are assured that if we do what we are trained to do, the children will get better.  Unfortunately those are often empty promises.  

The problem with rehoming is that it allows CPS, adoption agencies, and the professionals that we depend on to simply push our children aside and blame the parents when there is fallout.  The problem is that there is not an acceptable alternative for situations where the child cannot safely remain with their family.  The problem is that there are deeply wounded children who have been failed many times by the people who were supposed to protect them and there is not an easy way to fix that.  I don’t think that there are simple solutions to this problem but I do think we have to start a conversation about real alternatives.  We have to put down our torches so that we can see the hurting people who feel like they have no other options.  It’s not enough to be angry about little girls being tossed between homes and given to a rapist, we have to work to keep it from happening again. 

I welcome your thoughts on how we can come together as a community to help adoptive families who are struggling.  Let’s continue this conversation on Facebook or in the comments below.

 

*In most cases, children who are adopted from foster care are able to keep Medicaid.  This helps people adopt who would not have been able to because of the high cost of medical care. 

Should Everyone Consider Adoption?

   Someone asked me recently if I thought that everyone who wants children should consider adoption. I am absolutely an advocate for adoption but I found myself pausing before I answered.  The problem is that sometimes when we promote adoption and highlight the happy families it can create, we gloss over the darker side.  The truth is that every tearjerker story about a family being brought together starts with another story of absolute devastation.  Our children are not simply gifted to us, they are taken or abandoned or orphaned first.  Sometimes the love of a new family helps to heal the wounds of that loss; sometimes it isn’t enough. 

   When we recognize that adoption is so deeply connected to loss, it changes the conversation.  It is no longer simply about adults who want to be parents and fulfil that dream through adoption.  We also begin to recognize that adoption is about children who have lost everything.  Studies show that even infants who are adopted at birth, grieve their first mother.  Children who spend time in orphanages, foster placements or abusive homes lose their self of normalcy, the people that they depended on, and often their identity.  They grow up in a world focused on survival instead of play and connection.  Fortunately, in the majority of cases, those children can go on to live happy and loving lives when given the right supports but some struggle to ever really recover. 

   When someone is considering adoption, it should be with the knowledge that it is more complicated than parenting a typical, biological child. You should know that sometimes the wounds are deep and do not heal easily.  To make things worse, sometimes the supports that you were promised for after the adoption never materialize.  You should know that your child’s past is not sealed at adoption like their original birth certificate.  Everything that their old life gave them or made them remains after the judge declares you a forever family.  At the same time, you should know that you will grow to love this child deeper than you ever thought possible.  You should know that when you get through to them you will feel as though you have just won the Olympics.  You should know that there will be moments that you find yourself in awe that God is allowing you to parent this amazing person. 

   Although the dark side of adoption is not highlighted on commercials, I think it is critical to understand before you consider adding to your family.  You must take the time to have some honest conversations about whether your family can handle adoption and, if so, what type is best for you.  There are important differences between international, domestic, and foster care adoption. You should also decide what child(ren) would fit best with you.  The waiting list for healthy infants is long but there are thousands of older children, sibling groups or children with a wide range of disabilities who are legally free and waiting for a family today.  If your heart is open to these amazing kids, please consider opening your home too but if they are a consolation prize for the baby that you really wanted, please step back in line for the one that you will give your whole heart to.

   So, should everyone consider adoption? My answer is no.  I do think that everyone should consider how they can help the orphan. That could mean anything from donating duffle bags for kids being shuffled between homes to mentoring youth or providing respite care.  Or, maybe you will find your niche in some of the many great programs working to reduce the need for adoption around the globe.  It could also lead to a realization that the children you were destined to raise had another family first.  We all have a different roles to play and I think that we should each consider where we fit best.  Adoption can be beautiful but it is not simple or easy or for everyone.  Is it for you? What are you considering for your family?

I know that my thoughts on this are out of line with the typical Adoption Awareness Month message.  I want to hear your thoughts.  Let’s continue this conversation on Facebook.

She Wants to be a Mom

   My daughter, Alyssa, graduated from kindergarten a few days ago. I curled her hair and let her wear Chap Stick for the grand occasion. I helped her put on the little cap and gown and then I found a place with my family to watch her walk across the stage to get her diploma. There were the usual welcoming remarks followed by a slideshow. Each child had several pictures that her or his family had provided followed by a snapshot of them holding a chalkboard sign proclaiming what they want to be when they grow up. There were doctors, veterinarians and bull riders (we are in small town Texas after all). I expected Alyssa’s to say hair stylist or Elsa. Instead, it said mom. I heard the room sigh as the audience read that simple word. I imagine the others in the room thought it was sweet and cute for her to give that as an answer. I teared up as I stared at the screen though because I know what that word means to my baby girl.

   I was never the little girl who dreamed of growing up to be a mom. I spent more time riding horses than playing with Barbies. When I was assigned the home economics doll in high school, I used it as a football and cracked the battery case. And yet, being a parent has been a key part of my identity for the past decade. Today, I am one of Alyssa’s two moms. She has a birth mother whose parental rights were terminated by the state for abusing and neglecting her children. She also has me. I was her foster mother for almost two years before my husband and I adopted her. 

   Alyssa was only two and a half years old when she came to us but she had already lived through more than most adults. This tiny little child was so full of rage that she would scream for hours. She didn’t speak but would flip people off if she did not like them. She hit me, kicked me, and spit in my face. She broke anything she could and sometimes hurt herself when she was angry. I spent countless hours sitting on the floor with her in my lap, holding her while she screamed. I also walked away frustrated many times. There have been moments when I completely rocked it and helped her work through the grief of being abandoned by her first family. There have been other times when I completely failed and did not react with the compassion she needed in that moment. Through the ups and downs, I have stayed though because I believe that family is forever and real love stays even when it’s hard.

   Family and love were foreign concepts for my daughter when I met her. She had been bounced around between unhealthy homes and shelters. She had experienced loss and hunger and absolute fear. She had no reason to suspect when she came here that our home would be any different. Even after our adoption, Alyssa would ask several times each day if I was still her mom. She does that less now but that fear of abandonment still rears its ugly head sometimes when she gets in trouble and she goes back to being the scared little girl who believes no one really wants her. In those moments she occasionally asks if I will still be her mom as if I might disappear while she takes a timeout in the corner. “Always and forever” I tell her. “No matter what you do, we are family and family is forever.”     

   I’m just an ordinary mom. I’m way too busy and I burn dinner more often than I should. My house is messy and I couldn’t find a pair of matching socks to save my life but somehow, in all of that, my little girl found a definition of family different than the one that she was born into. As her picture flashed across that screen, I sat in amazement at how far she has come. The little girl who came to me so broken, now has an idea of what it means to be a part of a family and actually dreams of having her own someday. 

   I don’t know what the future holds for Alyssa.  She still struggles with her past and her special needs add additional challenges to her future.  I do know that she overcame the odds and learned to love in spite of the pain.  Alyssa wants to be a mom and I couldn’t be more proud.

And the winner of the kids is...

Let me start this by saying that we are foster/adopt.  Our goal is, and always has been, to grow our family through adoption.  Having said that, I have heard some foster parents bashing the system and birth parents involved lately.  They don’t understand why the parents are getting second (or fifth or sixth) chances.  They want to skip the court and the visits and the appointments and go straight to adoption by the foster parent.  I understand the love we feel for the kids in our care and how frustrating it all is but it really bothers me when I hear foster parents who feel like they are entitled to the children in their care.   

The grown ups in our cases have all screwed up.  They did things that we can’t comprehend and it’s easy to make it some kind of competition between us and them.  But, children are not some prize to be handed out to the winner of a parenting contest.  They don’t go to the one with the nicest house, the mom who volunteers the most hours at their school or the dad who coaches the most teams.  In case your fuzzy on my stance, let me make it clear. My family makes significantly more than our Little People’s birthparents.  That doesn’t matter.  We go on trips that they can’t.  That doesn’t matter.  My kids go to private school and wear nice clothes.  That doesn’t matter.  I love them to the moon and back.  Even that doesn’t matter.  Because, none of that is a reason for another mother to lose her children.  It isn’t a competition of whether we or the bios are better for the kids.  It is about whether they can do what the state expects them too in the time allowed.

 If you cannot understand that, then you need to be straight adoption because until the ink dries on the adoption decree they are not fully our children.  As long as TPR hasn’t happened, the birth parents have a chance.  We understood that when we got into this.  So it is one thing to advocate for our kids but it is another to try to push for us to keep them.   It is our moral and ethical duty to push for what is best for the children and most of the time that means reunification.  I don’t even let people pray that I get to adopt my little people because doing so is praying that another family will fall apart.  Adoption is a beautiful, wonderful thing that is also extremely painful for kids and adults.   It’s not ever the best case scenario.  Someday when my kids are older and they start asking questions, I want to be able to look them in the eye and tell them that I did not steal them.  I did everything in my power to help them stay in their birth parents.

Part of doing everything means doing visits.  Yeah they suck but we knew that when we signed up.  Our job is to help our kids handle them and do what we can to make them successful.  That means we support the bios.  We send notes or pictures.  We stay up late those nights and rock our crying children while they try to process a world that doesn’t make sense.  We work towards reunification as long as that is an option even if we cannot stand what they did to the children we love. 

Fostering is hard.  This is a slow and hard process and there are no guarantees.  We all have tough moments but our general attitude has to be that we want what is best for the kids even if that hurts us.  I believe with all my heart that every child deserves to have someone that will be devastated to see them go.  If you can be that person who opens your heart knowing it will be broken, then maybe fostering is for you.  But if you can’t, then you should look for another way to help kids or grow your family.

Mom on the Run

I ran away from home the other day.  I did it in flip flops, with no money and on a 4 wheeler.  I know that’s not really something that 29 year old moms are supposed to do but before you recommend me for commitment, let me explain.

I’ve had a rough couple of weeks.  Things have been crazy hectic.  My neighbor killed my dog.  Then, my dad got hurt really bad.  And, on top of everything Little Miss has been extremely difficult and Hubby has been working nights so it’s been me against the masses.  So, all of that led up to Monday and a very frazzled mommy.  Little Miss woke up in a bad mood and she doesn’t believe in being miserable alone.  She screamed constantly.  She broke things.  She hurt her brothers.  She hurt herself.  She was rough. 

                That evening I tried to get the kids together to take Captain to karate class but Little Miss dislikes karate since it’s the one time each week that the world revolves around someone other than her.  That’s a big deal to me.  I am in a constant state of guilt and worry that Captain is suffering because of our choice to foster.  I really think he has benefited from it overall but he doesn’t get near the amount of attention as he did as an only child.  It’s important to me that he feels like a little star at something. Little Miss has all of this figured out so any time we go to karate she has meltdown either on the way or as soon as we get inside.  This means that I have to be one of THOSE moms that sit in the car waiting for their kid to come out of class instead of the cheerleader that I desperately want to be.   I feel like I’m letting him down when I miss out on watching him fall down three times while they are running laps and his uncoordinated attempts at round houses. 

                Back to Monday.  I was insisting that we really were going to karate and getting Captain dressed and finding shoes for the baby when Little Miss got mad and let our new dog out the front door.  So, I’m running around outside frantically trying to catch the dog before the neighbor shoots her too but apparently in corgi-world it is hysterical to run right up to your owner and then bolt just before she can reach you.  She kept running in the road so I was going that direction when I looked back and saw the baby walking barefoot through the yard.  I ran back for him and the dog chose this moment to disappear.  So, then I loaded up the kids and we drove up and down the road looking for the dog, who you wouldn’t think would be that hard to spot in a hot pink dress.  After several minutes I went to Hubby’s mom’s house up the road and woke him up to make him help (he sleeps there when he’s on nights cause our house is so loud during the day that a deaf man couldn’t get any rest).   We drove and drove till we finally caught Princess Minnie Mouse Firedog and brought her to safety.  At this point, karate was over and we had missed it. 

                Hubby knew that my nerves were frayed to when we went back to his mom’s to get the 4 wheeler he had driven over there, we agreed that I would drive it back while he followed in the car with the kids.  That was the plan.  I intended to follow that plan, I really did.  But then I got to our house and I just couldn’t make myself turn into the driveway.  Instead I just pushed the throttle in and kept right on going.  I had this moment of exhilarating freedom.  It was awesome.  And then it back fired, the 4 wheeler I mean.  And then it backfired again.  Within just half of a mile, I was stuck on the side of the road with an ATV completely out of gas.  Let me tell you that it was awkward calling my husband to explain that I had attempted to run away from home but ran out of gas and now needed to be rescued.  Luckily, he’s a good guy so he came right on down.  Unluckily, we had no gas at the house.    But we stood in a driveway with the dead 4 wheeler while the kids sat in the car and talked for a few uninterrupted minutes which was actually pretty nice.  We were just about to start pushing it to a safer spot when one of my neighbors drove by.  She’s another oilfield wife so she understands having the occasional break down.  She didn’t judge at all.  She just got me some gas from her house and invited me to bring the kids over for pizza next time hubby is on nights for a hitch.  When we finally made it home, Hubby thought it would be a good idea to let me ride while he took the kids for burgers.  I raced around our pasture till my thumb hurt and the world made more sense.  Then I sent an email to our foster adopt specialist and reminded her that we had to get respite this weekend.   

                Fostering isn’t easy.  It is rewarding and I usually think it’s worth it but it is not easy.  Foster parents need help and we need breaks.  When we don’t get that, we sometimes throw 2 year old style temper tantrums.  I’ve seen a lot of debate recently on whether it’s ok to send foster kids on respite.  Some people think it just isn’t fair to these kids.  I’ll write more on that some other time but let me just say that I think my kids will benefit more from me spending the weekend with hubby and some really good friends than they would from me tolerating them without any rest.  If nothing else, it has to be better to plan a short getaway than to randomly have a mini nervous breakdown and run away from home in flip flops, with no money and on a 4 wheeler with no gas.

Paid to Love

I write a lot of blogs in my head.  I have addressed all sorts of issues, berated many frustrating individuals and solved most of the world’s problems through my blogs over the last few months.  Unfortunately, by the time the kids are in bed and the laundry is going and my homework is done and Facebook is checked, it seems like my fingers are just too tired to tap the keyboard.  So, most of my rants haven’t made it to the here.  Come to think of it, that may be a good thing.  Anyway, here’s something that I’ve been thinking about for a few weeks now and actually managed to get typed.  I would like to say that there is more on the way but I hate to get you all excited and then leave you hanging for another 3 months.  So, without further ado, here is my humble opinion on a common foster care myth.

When I was a kid, I spent hundreds of hours watching The 3 Stooges with my dad and brothers.  So, I was excited about the movie and went to see it with them, Hubby and Captain (our bio 6 year old son) a few weeks ago.    The movie was full of cheesy, slapstick comedy but I think the funniest thing was watching Captain doubled over, laughing in his seat at Larry and Curly getting poked in the eyes.  Anyway, I’m not here to do movie reviews, there is a point.  I promise.  The movie is set in a children’s home and has a lot of negative comments about foster care and adoption.   I’m not the type to crusade against every movie that gets their facts wrong but there’s one comment that just stuck with me.  A little girl was told that she would be going from the group home to a foster family and yelled the she refused to go to a home where they were paid to love her.

Here’s the thing, foster parents DO NOT get paid to love our kids.  We get paid to feed them and clothe them and be a stable force in their unstable lives.  And, when I say we get paid I don’t mean that we make money.  In some states, foster parents get as little as $300 a month to care for our charges.  (Luckily Texas is higher because I spend more than that on gas in a month going to visits.)  We’re asked to do a lot for those few dollars but we are never asked to love these children and really, if we were smart, we wouldn’t.  Opening up your heart and loving one of these kids means that it just might get ripped out when someone who doesn’t seem to care shows up for two visits and an overworked caseworker decides they can have our baby.   Loving one of these children means taking off your rose colored glasses and getting down on their level and seeing the world in a way that will change your forever.   It means holding them while they hit, kick and bite you because you know that they need to know you aren’t going to leave when they implode. 

It is not easy or comfortable or required that we love our foster kids.  But, a lot of us tend to think that these kids deserve someone who is willing to cry with them and for them.  I believe with all my heart that my babies should have at least one person in their life that would miss them if they left.  In the ideal world, that would have been their parents and they wouldn’t be in this situation to begin with.  That world doesn’t exist for these guys though so foster parents are the next best thing.  It’s not that we have this amazing superpower to unconditionally love every child that comes through our doors.  Some are easier than others and some don’t stay long enough for us to really develop any true bond with.  In spite of that, regular people from all over America get up every day and open our hearts to children who desperately need a mommy or daddy’s love.  That isn’t because that is what we are paid to do.  It is because that's what we are called do.  There’s a big difference there. 

Seek justice... Defend the fatherless

Isaiah 1:17 Learn to do good; Seek justice, Rebuke the oppressor; Defend the fatherless, Plead for the widow.

Throughout this whole foster care adventure, I’ve tried to have a hands-off mentality.  I truly believe that God will give us the forever child that we are meant to have and I don’t want to intervene and mess things up.  Lately though, I’ve been really stressed about the way that they have been treating Little Miss.  She has become nothing more than a number to some higher ups and they have been pushing for something that any sane person can see is a bad idea.  I’m not just talking about sending her to birth parents that I don’t like.  It’s much worse than that.  And to make matters worse, the people who are supposed to advocate for her either didn’t care or were being silenced.  So, after much prayer and a phone call from gotandem with a verse I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for 2 weeks, I felt like I was supposed to speak up for her.

That brings us to today when I found myself in court, terrified at the prospect of speaking to the judge but feeling like I had no choice.  For those of you who have never been to family court, let me tell you it’s chaotic.  Well, today was my only experience with it so maybe it’s not normally that bad.  But today at least, court was chaotic.  There were all these backroom deals going on and negotiating and the judge calling everyone back to a little room to talk about what each party wanted.  Fortunately, we have a great agency and an awesome caseworker who stayed with me the whole time and advocated for Little Miss to all the big players.  The actual hearing only lasted maybe 10 minutes but we were there for 2 ½ hours.  In the end, they decided against what they were planning… for now at least.  We have another court date in April and I think we’ll know more about the long term then but we have gained some powerful allies who plan to fight for her to stay in our family.

So, I learned that family court is chaotic and long and confusing… and sad.  It’s sad because no matter who wins, there is always a loser.  There is someone on the wrong end of the verdict who has to come to grips with the fact they are running out of chances and there really is no one else to blame but themselves.  Even worse is when there are kids that lose.  Little Miss has 4 half siblings that lost big today.  They went woke up this morning in kinship care (staying with a relative) and tonight they are foster children.  There was screaming and crying and this feeling like their world was falling apart because really it was. 

I remember the day they brought Little Miss to me.  She was dirty and hurt, confused and terrified with a vacant look in her eyes.  She cried for hours before she finally fell asleep.  She didn’t speak for about two weeks.   She was traumatized more than her little mind could process.  She’s a completely different child these days.  The fear is gone for her but it is escalating for the others.  So, tonight when I prayed with Little Miss, we thanked God for keeping her safe in our home but we said an extra prayer for her brothers and sisters.  Tonight I know there is some other foster mom trying to help 4 other kids believe that there is still hope.  I pray God gives her the right words to say.  Tonight, I pray that those children can find peace when they close their eyes.  I’m still praying for a perfect ending for Little Miss’s story but tonight I’m praying for 4 new foster children.  Please join me in that.

Little Moments

Little Man has started dancing.  It’s the funniest thing.  He just bops his little butt along to any beat he finds, especially that new Pizza Hut commercial with the guitar.  I know it isn’t a major skill like walking but it’s one of those parenting moments where they make you stop and smile and forget about the fact that you survived from Sunday till Friday on 14 hours of sleep.  To me, those little mile stones are bittersweet.  They are a part of what makes being a foster parent so rewarding.  I experience the joy of watching this little person develop right before my eyes but that means that someone else isn’t seeing what I see.   In a few weeks, he’ll go live with his dad and start this whole new relationship with a year’s worth of missed little moments.

   When I think back on all the moments that have made being Captain’s (my 5 year old bio son) mom the best thing to ever happen to me, it isn’t the baby book milestones.  It’s the time that he asked me to get him a ladder so he could climb up on the roof and practice flying with his Buzz Lightyear wings.  It’s the way he looked when he and his daddy took a nap together in the recliner.  It’s the way his tiny fingers used to wrap around mine.  All those little details are what make being a parent such an amazing thing. 

   I’m glad that Little Man was somewhere safe while his dad worked everything out.  I’m also glad that there were some serious consequences to his actions that will hopefully serve as a reminder to put being a dad before the urge to give in to addiction.  At the same, I empathize for him as a parent.  I can’t imagine all the little moments that he’s missed with this baby.  It must be horrible to know that your actions caused you to miss his first Christmas, first words, first steps and even his first birthday.  For the moment though, I think I’m going to ignore all of that, rewind the TV and dance to a Pizza Hut commercial with my temporary baby boy.

Will the real mom please stand up?

   There’s a story in the Bible where King Solomon has to decide who the real mother is of an infant that two women claim.  There were no DNA test back then.  They had both recently given birth.  I’m guessing the baby didn’t obviously look more like one than the other.  There was no real way to know for sure so the whole court stopped to see what the wisest man to ever live would decide.  His answer… cut the baby in half and let each woman have part of him.  Sounds crazy right? But just like he thought, one woman began screaming and immediately tried to relinquish all rights to the baby in order to spare his life.  That one, according to Solomon, was the real mom.  More on this in a minute.

   When Little Miss came to us in September, I gave her a choice to either call me Mommy or by my name.  Within a few days she was calling me mommy and has ever since.  In fact, its something that she’s really proud of.  She doesn’t always talk much but she’s constantly telling people, even strangers, that I’m her mama.  That hadn’t caused any problems until a few weeks before Christmas.  That day, she forgot her birth mom’s name.  I should note that I have never told Little Miss anything bad about BM or asked her to call her anything different.  Anyway, the mom went nuts and yelled at me in front of everyone.  She told me that I needed to start correcting Little Miss whenever she calls me that because SHE is her “real mom”.  (I’m trying to keep this blog family friendly so I’ll spare you what I thought about that.)  I kept my mouth shut and after a few minutes the caseworker finally noticed.  She said I can have Little Miss call me whatever I want.

   Yesterday, when I picked Little Miss up from an especially long and hard visit, she announced to her family that she was “going to go ride in Mommy’s car”.  Birthmom freaked out again and yelled at her.  When she realized that everyone was watching she suggested that Little Miss start calling me Stepmom instead, a suggestion I have no intention of implementing.  So, after that I put my 3 year old in the car and spent the hour long drive home trying to get her to stop crying.  Today’s been even worse.  She’s screamed, kicked, hit, cried and got so overwhelmed she had a seizure because as little sense as this makes to a grown up, it’s even harder for a toddler to understand. 

   Back to Solomon.  He knew who the real mom was because she was willing to be completely devastated for the good of her child.  If a woman is so selfish that she can’t see the pain it would cause Little Miss if I suddenly said she can’t call me mom, than she’s not a real mom.  If she can’t accept that it is not her toddler’s fault she doesn’t know to call her mom, than she’s not a real mom.  If she can’t understand that at some point she should stop dragging her children through the courts when she really has no intention of reform, she’s not a real mom.  I’m sure it completely sucks to hear your baby calling someone else mommy but until she’s willing to suffer because she knows that it means Little Miss is in a family that adores her, she doesn’t deserve the title.  I understand that I’m a foster mom and I have no real hold on my little girl but right at the moment I’m especially frustrated with a system that places the wishes of selfish adults above the rights of an innocent child.  So for now I just rock my temporary baby and assure her that she can always call me mommy, even if it is mommy with an asterisk.

Not Average... Just Normal

I was joking with another foster mom the other day about how much more work our kids are than bio kids.  Our kids are not average.   They have issues and baggage.  They demand more than others their age and have quirks that don’t make sense until you get eye level with them to see how it helped them survive. When it comes to what they require, what it takes to earn their trust and how they process things, foster kids are anything but average.   I remember right after Little Miss came to live with us.  I bought her a high chair for her dolls and was all excited because I was sure she’d love it.  Instead she cried.  My little 2 year old cried because she didn’t have any food to give her baby doll.  Average kids, who have never been hungry, don’t think about things like that. 

                But here’s the thing… my kids are normal.  Little Miss begs tries to negotiate for more stories at bedtime every night just like every other 2 year old.  She is convinced that she is a real princess and twirls around the dining room in her sparkly dresses.  Little Man gets into everything he can just like every other 11 month old.  He wiggles during diaper changes and lays his head on my chest when he’s sleepy.  I kiss their boo boos and pull stickers off the walls.  They run away in WalMart but come running up with sweet hugs and kisses.  We play hours of peek-a-boo with Little Man and cheered when Little Miss overcame her fear of bounce houses.

                Out of everything that I’ve learned during this journey it has been how absolutely normal foster kids are.  They are regular kids with scars from selfish adults who didn’t treat them right.  Like many other people, I was scared of foster kids.  Especially the older ones just seemed too dangerous to have around my family.  True, some of them have worse issues than others but really these are just regular kids that got a rough start.  Not average…  just normal kids.