Thankful for Tea and Motherhood

Last weekend I was invited to an afternoon tea for moms at a friend’s home. I’ll admit that I was a little, or maybe completely, out of my element. I’m a true Texan girl so I drink more tea than water but I drink it the right way: sweet and iced.  I wasn’t really sure how to act at a table full of fancy dishes, kettles and a box full of fancy teas. I didn’t break or spill anything though so I call that a win.  (Looking back I think I have been spending too much time with my children when that counts as a win.)

After tea, everyone moved into the living room for a Bible study.  We settled into Ann’s big couches with ice cold cucumber water and sat quietly while she opened with a prayer. It was a simple prayer but something in it struck me. Of course she thanked God for the chance to spend an afternoon with friends and learning about His word but then she thanked Him for motherhood.

Thanking God for motherhood really struck me.  We are often told to give thanks for our children and our families. Even on the worst days, my kids are a blessing like no other. Each of them is an answer to a desperate prayer.  I think there is a difference between being thankful for my kids and appreciating this amazing identity that is so much a part of me.

Motherhood did not come easy to me. I remember hours spent praying in the rocking chair of the room that would become our nursery for the children I was yet to meet.  I remember bitter tears and living in the story of Hannah. I also remember what it was like to finally be accepted into the global club of women who understand what it means to love a tiny human with more passion than you ever thought possible.

I know many others who have lost babies or waited years for children who never come.  I know women who have chosen to share their homes and hearts with other women’s children and have had their motherhood questioned.  I know others for whom parenting was thrust upon them against their will or ahead of their schedule but they have risen to the occasion.



Mothering has been the most rewarding and the most devastating thing I have ever done. It has been both the easiest thing and the hardest. Motherhood is not simply something I do. It is a part of me. It is a piece of my identity. I am a mother in the same way that I am a woman and a Christian and a Texan. Like every other permanent identity, motherhood shapes the way that I see the world and interact with the people in it.

There are days when I struggle as a mom. There are times when I feel inadequate or I am convinced that someone else is better suited to this brood.  It is easy to become overwhelmed by the daily responsibilities and the constant pressures that come along with parenting.   Some days I think I need to be reminded that motherhood is a gift.  These children, this family, and this entire identity are blessings.  I’m thankful than that. 

January Rules

In the decade since I had my first son, I have come to realize that parenting is mostly just winging it. I might look like I have it together at this point but that’s just because I’ve perfected a Donald Trump style comb over to cover the spot where I pull my hair out. One of the things that surprised me most after having kids was how many new rules I would have to make up along the way. I don’t know if it’s just my kids but basics like play nice and clean your room don’t cut it here. January is especially trying because they have so much new crap great stuff to play with that they got last month. So while the rest of the world is busy working on their resolutions, I’m over here making new rules in an attempt to keep the house from imploding. Here’s a few of the newest additions:

Do not fly your new drone in my room while I am sleeping.

I am not responsible for any damage caused when I wake up screaming and bat the flying demon monster away from my face.

Only Elsa dolls get to stand on your new Frozen castle like she did in the movie.

Little girls wearing Elsa dresses are not to climb up there. If you break your face, I will sell your new castle to pay for the hospital bills. Well, I probably won’t but I will definitely dream about it. Save us both the trouble and keep your feet on the floor.

In my defense, I assumed this was covered under the rule about not climbing on the roof even if you're wearing Buzz Lightyear wings.  I realize now that the point of this climbing is to sing dramatically, not to fly like a spaceman.  Those are completely different.  That was my mistake.  The new rule has been officially added. 

Well I guess Hello Kitty and My Little Ponies are OK.  Basically just no humans allowed on the cardboard balcony.

Do not build Lego machines that run on Barbie doll hearts.

If you want your contraption to take over the world, I’m good with that. If you feel the need to feed that thing your sister’s toys, we have a problem. It’s not just about stealing her stuff either. I’ve seen Toy Story. I know what happens to kids like Sid.

Do not put any (more) baby puppies in your stuffed animal net.

Also, little boys are not allowed in the stuffed animal net even if they are pretending to be a teddy bear.

This is Smith Wigglesworth.  His butt wiggles when he walks. 

Your toys are not allowed to play guitar after bedtime.

Obviously I believe you that it was your minion rocking out. You were just laying in bed as innocent as a lamb. Mommy is tired though and even Bob has to obey the rules. If I hear any more music coming out of your room before the sun comes up, he will be spending the entire night in time out.

Of course these are in addition to our normal rules like don’t ride the dog, no farting at the table and we don’t use nail polish on the walls or furniture. I would like to point out that none of these rules were in the What to Expect books. I thought we would need the standard rules to help our little angels grow into respectable adults. Instead, it seems like every new ordinance is just aimed at keeping this circus out of the ER or preventing major property damage. Please tell me I’m not alone in this. What new rules have you had to add in your house this month?

The Difference Between Mommy Guilt and Mommy Shame

It seems like every other day another article comes out about mommy guilt. A woman whom we all relate to discusses how overwhelmed she felt by thoughts that she was never doing enough for her kids, partner, house, job, or life. Usually there was a turning point where she realized that she was tilting at windmills and trying to achieve the impossible when what she really needed to do was give herself grace and embrace the cheerios on the floor. Many moms applaud this kind of writing because it tells us that other people are imperfect so it might be ok if we don’t do everything the sanctimommies claim they do.

I’ll admit that as a completely imperfect mom, I am sometimes drawn to these stories. It is nice to read about other women who are just as exhausted as I am at the end of the day and who have to remind themselves to look interested during yet another 30 minute monologue on Minecraft. I like the idea that there are other moms who fantasize about burning the laundry pile and sometimes yell at their kids. In general, I think that women need more grace to be human instead of more pressure to live up to standards that are often contradictory and impossible. 

Typically, these pieces end with a declaration that the mom is completely eschewing all the guilt and refusing to allow it any place in her life. We are supposed to cheer at this new found enlightenment but that is where the professor in me pokes her head up. I teach Introduction to Psychology to first year college students and I work hard to teach them that all of our emotions have a purpose. Our feelings are there to help us understand our world and what people or events mean to us. Anger is a natural response to a violation, sadness tells me that I have suffered a loss and fear says that I am in danger.  Like every other feeling, guilt exist for a reason. Go ahead and clutch your pearls but I’m going to say it, mommy guilt is not always a bad thing. Guilt lets me know when I may have done something wrong.  When I feel guilty for something that I am actually responsible for, and I feel it in an appropriate intensity, I can learn from my mistakes and become a better parent. The problem is sometimes mommy guilt turns into mommy shame and that is harmful.

Brene Brown is a researcher who has spent years studying some of our most difficult emotions. She teaches that there is an important difference between shame and guilt which many people miss. Guilt tells us that we have done something bad while shame tells us that we are bad. That distinction is important because it influences how we respond to our inner dialogue. Guilt encourages me to think about what I did and how I can repair it. Shame often causes us to shut down more and isolate farther.

Imagine that you are making dinner at the end of a horribly long day. You are tired and frustrated and just trying to make it till bedtime so you can crash on the couch with wine, popcorn and Scandal. Sensing this, your kids go into overdrive and push every button until you snap. Then they look at you with those big watery eyes like you just broke their little hearts. What do you then? What are the voices in your head saying for the rest of the night? Do your thoughts sound more like shame or guilt?

Shame says: I am a horrible mother. I ALWAYS yell at them. I mess up everything. I am destroying my kids. I want to put them in bed now and hide. I wish I wasn’t such a bad a mom. I just can’t do anything right. I wish I was more like that other mom who has everything together and never struggles.

Guilt says: I made a mistake. I was tired and upset and I took it out on them. I need to apologize to my kids. Next time I will try taking a few minutes alone to decompress after work before making dinner. I love my kids and also I am human so I mess up sometimes. 

Do you hear the difference there? When shame speaks, it can feel overwhelming. Guilt recognizes that there is a problem but that problem does not define you. You made a mistake but you are not one. Guilt is not something we have to run from because it teaches us to be better parents, partners and people. Shame on the other hand is rarely helpful. Shame makes the problem bigger while tearing you down. It takes time and effort but you may find yourself experiencing more peace as your learn which voice to listen to. 

The next time that mommy guilt or mommy shame are competing for space in your life, try thinking through these questions:   

     Is this something I should feel guilty about?

     Am I remembering to focus on what I DID instead of who I AM?

     Do I feel more guilt than I should about what I did?

     How would I like to address this situation differently in the future or make repairs with the person I hurt?

     How can I make repairs and extend grace with myself?

Most moms struggle with guilt and shame at some point. We put so much pressure on ourselves to be the perfect mom that it can feel overwhelming.  Learning to set realistic standards for ourselves can help us to resist the shame and listen to guilt when it says that there is something we can tweak. Let’s continue this conversation in the comments below or on my facebook page.  


*Note: We all feel guilt and shame from time to time.Often we feel better when we talk with friends or work on changing our thoughts.  If negative emotions start to feel overwhelming or you are afraid you might hurt yourself or someone else, it may be time to speak to a therapist.  You can search for one near you at this website. Remember that there is no shame is getting help.

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. 

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.

I’m a special needs mom and I need you to hold my arms up.

   When I was a little girl, my mom and I would get up early most mornings to read the Bible together.  I always loved the stories in the Old Testament of battles and heroes and romance.  I pictured myself as Ester speaking for her people, Deborah leading the armies into battle or Rahab saving the spies.  In my daydreams I was the Biblical version of Wonder Woman, stepping up and saving the day when the men failed to get the job done.  These days I’m too tired to play warrior princess.  Since Alyssa got sick, there is another Old Testament story that has resonated with me though. 

Alyssa is 6 and has PCDH19 Epilepsy

   In Exodus 17, we read a story about a battle that the Israelites fought with Amalek.  In this particular battle the Israelites prevailed so long as Moses held up his hands but he grew tired as the battle raged.  As his weary arms started to sink, the enemy grew stronger.   Seeing this, Aaron and Hur found a rock for him to sit on.  Then they did something that changed the course of the battle.  They stood beside Moses and they held his arms up.

   Parenting in general is hard work but when a child has special needs it can start to feel like an impossible task.  There are so many appointments and emergencies and daily trials that it is enough to make your head spin.  Ironically, as the world implodes and we need help the most, many special needs parents find their support systems dwindling.  Some people choose to abandon us because our new lives don’t fit their sense of perfect.  Some shrink away in fear that our tragedy might wear off on them.  I honestly think though that most stand back because they don’t know what to do.  In the face of what seem like insurmountable obstacles, physical challenges and emotional devastation, they simply don’t believe that they have anything to offer.  That could not be farther from the truth.

Alyssa hanging out in the hospital in March 2013

    As I reflect back over the past two years, I remember many times when I felt like I was Moses, alone on a mountain, growing weary of the fight.  There were moments though, when people came beside me and helped me bear the load.  In small acts of kindness, friends and strangers came along and held our arms up.

It was the small town pharmacist who saw us adding yet another medication and took the time to ask if I’m ok.

It was my MMA instructor doing an entire class of just punching the bag because I was too raw for anything more.

It was the time at work when I broke down and every woman in my office stopped what she was doing to hold me while I sobbed.

It was random text messages from people saying that they were praying for me.

It was my mom sitting with Alyssa so that I could sleep for a few hours after being awake at the hospital for days.

It was our brand new babysitter being willing to keep Alyssa even on bad days so I didn’t have to quit school.

It was the other mothers in a Facebook group who understood the true intensity behind a simple post of “I hate epilepsy” and offered their virtual support from around the globe.

It was the friend who let me take off the mommy hat for a little while and talk about school or clients or some other gossip that helped to balance out my brain.

It was the people who gave my boys grace because they understood how hard it is to watch your sister fall apart.

It was the teacher’s aide who gently held Alyssa as she crossed the stage so she could still receive her pre-k awards last year after seizures left her disoriented and unstable.

Christmas 2014

   What I want you to notice is that few of the things I have listed are world changing actions but they were slivers of light in an otherwise dark time.  They cost their givers very little but meant the world to me.  There was no special skill or expertise required, only the willingness to stay when our life was anything but pretty and we were too depleted to give anything in return.

   The truth is that you usually don’t have to do anything extravagant to support the special needs parents in your world.  I don’t need you to fight my battle.  I don’t need you to have all the answers or the perfect plan to win the war.  I just need you to stand beside me sometimes and hold my arms up.

                                                                                  

My partner in crime.

Cautious Optimism

   This morning Hubby and I got up at the crack of dawn and braved rush hour traffic for an appointment with Alyssa’s epileptologist.  (An epileptologist is a neurologist with 2 additional years of specialized training who only treats epilepsy.)  We hadn't seen her since December because Alyssa is fairly stable at the moment.  In fact, in May we will have made it one year without a tonic-clonic seizure (what used to be known as grand mal seizures.)  

Daddy, Alyssa & Super Bradley checking out the games at the children's hospital.

   A year without seizures is a huge milestone in the world of epilepsy.  Ironically, it is also terrifying. If Alyssa maintains her streak over the summer, then in the fall we will start to slowly wean her off of at least one of her medications. I have a love / hate relationship with those medications.  On the one hand she takes large doses of mind altering drugs every day with a whole slew of side effects and an undetermined impact on her development. On the other hand, those drugs are keeping her alive.

Pink band-aids and suckers make everything better.

   The other fly in the ointment is that the lack of seizures is allowing us to see the behavioral and cognitive challenges that Alyssa faces.  She is a complicated kid in that regard.  It is hard to tell what is the medications, the disorder, damage from seizures or a result from the abuse she suffered before coming to us.  What is clear is that we have a long road ahead of us.

   Tonight, I am cautiously optimistic.  I am choosing to enjoy this space between clusters, regardless of how long it may last.  I am choosing to be grateful for the amazing team of professionals that we have built even as we amass more specialists.  I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I am looking forward to hitting the one year mark, and whatever comes after that.

The Lies I Believed

   When faced with tragedy, the human brain often refuses to accept the information presented to it.  We go into denial because the truth doesn’t make sense and it seems like more than we can handle.  Eventually though, most people come to grips with reality even as painful as it is.  We face the world that took the place of the one we knew.  We sort through the beliefs that we once held dear hoping to find some that are still true and replacing those that aren’t.  It is a painful but necessary process.  It requires one to admit that they were wrong about people and life and sometimes their beliefs about world.

   I have spent the last few months sorting through the lies and inaccuracies that I used to believe.  I believed that certain people would be there for my family no matter what.  I was wrong.  I thought that other people were simply acquaintances or peers but they stepped up and stood beside me at my darkest moments.  I thought that my children were healthy.  I thought that my faith and good works somehow protected me from devastation.  I thought life was going to look a certain way and our future held endless possibilities.  I was wrong about all of that.

   There is one particular lie that has been particularly hard to face lately.  I based my goals and dreams on a belief that I now understand all too well is simply not true.  Somehow in my naivety and high ambition, I swallowed the propaganda that women can have it all.  The truth is that we, or at least I, simply can’t.  I can’t parent my children in the way that they need and continue my education as planned.  I can’t give everything required to attain an advanced degree and successfully manage a household while my husband works out of town and I have limited support.  I can’t plan to work several more years on the degree needed to achieve my goals when I can’t even find childcare for two evenings a month next semester.  It is not a matter of being willing to make sacrifices or lean in.  The truth is that eventually you run out of things to give up and if I lean any farther I will likely just land on my face.  It is not a matter of lacking intelligence, desire or drive.  There are simply some hurdles that I am unable to clear.

   This semester has been about facing the lies and giving up on unattainable dreams.  I made the choice to not pursue a doctorate degree in psychology and stop when I complete my master’s in May.  That means that I will not be qualified for the positions that I have dreamed of and worked towards for years.  It means that I find myself in the uncomfortable position of trying to decide on a new direction with graduation looming only a few months away.  It also means that I will be available for therapy appointments and hospital visits, field trips and homework.  I may even be able to reintroduce my family to the concept of a home cooked meal.   

   At the moment, I think that I am making the right choice but that doesn’t make it any less painful. Taking the blinders off and recognizing the limitations in this life hurts.  Coming to grips with the fact that the way things are is in no way close to the way I thought that they should be is a difficult process.  I understand why some people choose to live like an ostrich and keep their heads buried deep enough that they do not have to acknowledge the world burning down all around them.  I have to believe though that at some point beauty will come from the ashes.  I can’t see the positive yet but at least I am a little closer to seeing the truth and that’s progress for me.

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.