Moses and Foster Care

When we finally took the leap and started our paperwork to become foster parents, Chris and I realized that we needed to explain what was happening to our kids.  We needed them to understand how our family was going to change, who the new kids would be, why they might leave and never come back.  Because foster care is not just my job or Chris' job...our whole family participates.  And while Chris and I spent 36 hours in training classes just to get licensed, James and Winston spent four weekends playing with their grandparents, oblivious to the upcoming changes.  I thought and thought and researched and researched, trying to find a clear, simple way to tell our four and two year old sons that they were going to become siblings in a non-traditional way.  Finally, one night during our story time, I found what I was looking for.  I turned the page in the Bear Bible to the story of Moses.

 

"Moses was in danger, he was hiding in a stream.

A princess came to take a bath, and heard a baby scream.

She hugged that tiny baby, and carried him back home,

And loved that tiny baby, as if he were her own.

Just like Baby Moses, we are always in God's care.

He will love and keep us, now and always, Tiny Bear."

 

It was perfect: simple, to the point, and Biblical!  It even rhymed.  And I was struck for the first time that Moses was kind of the first recorded foster kid.  He saw his mom, he knew who his siblings were, but he was raised in another home to keep him safe.  That's exactly what we're doing, I told the boys.  There are more baby Moses' out there, and Mommy and Daddy want to help them be safe and grow up big and strong, just like you.

 

Then we got our first placement, and it was a baby boy.  A real, live Baby Moses to complete the explanation.  I held him when he cried.  I gave him medicine to soothe his aching body.  I bathed him and changed him and bought him clothes.  And I came to a wondrous, surprising realization about parenting:  he is not mine.  Of course, it was very literal at first, because every other week, I dropped him off with the social worker to visit with his parents.  But even after they stopped coming to see him and the judge rescinded their rights and we moved to an adoption, I knew that he wasn't mine, any more than the boys I gave birth to.  My children aren't my property.  They aren't an extension of myself or my husband.  They are little people, little versions of the self they will become someday, and I'm given the chance to be their mom, to watch over them and care for them, for a while.  I'm not perfect at what I do, I yell and lose my temper and forget to bring the diaper bag (always when a huge poop is imminent, too).  These boys came from God, and they are always in his care.  And when they no longer need me to wipe their tushies or rock them to sleep, they'll start to pull away and eventually leave my home.  This realization made me cherish our time together.  It made me stop trying to do, do, do, to push them to enjoy the things I enjoy and dislike what I dislike.  I started looking at who they really are, and finding ways to cultivate, rather than dictate that.

 

The story of Moses stuck with me.  It was the lesson in the 2s class I taught the weekend we took custody of Michael.  It was the sermon preached the first Sunday we came to church with our new placement.  Its the story I try to impart to all the foster kids I meet.  He was just like you, I tell them.  He could have been killed as a baby if his sister and mother hadn't made arrangements for him, and his new mom hadn't had compassion on him.  But that's not the end of his story, and its not the end of yours, either.  Because when he became a man, capable of making decisions for himself, Moses came back to his people, and he spoke for them and he cried out to God for them, and he led them out of slavery.  You can do that too.  You can come back to this place of hopelessness and confusion where you live right now, and you can lead other kids to safety.  You can break their chains because you know exactly where they are bound.  Your childhood doesn't determine the rest of your life.  I know this, because its my story too.

Accepting the 10

I was folding laundry recently (like, um, every day for the past 6 years), and I had an epiphany.  As I held up a pair of my capris and began to fold them together, my eyes fell on the number 10 in bold font on the tag.  And I cringed.  I realized that I don't like seeing that number on my pants.  I used to see a big, old 6, and it made me feel good.  Then I had a baby, and the number bumped up to 8.  Then I had another baby, and suddenly I was in the double-digits.  Size 10.  Four years have gone by, and although the Jillian Michael's Shred helps firm things up, the number on my pants stays the same.  Every time I see it, I feel fat.  But I have friends who call me skinny.  I have a husband who calls me beautiful.  I have children who rush to hug me and wrap their sweet little arms around the very body that I get disgusted by.  So maybe I'm the one with the problem.  Maybe I'm missing something they are seeing.  And I've decided it means I have to accept this number, and stop wishing it was different.

The tag on the pants and jacket says L.  Winston says that stands for Love.

1.  I want to be healthy.  I could definitely eat better...I drink 2-3 cans of pop a day and have a child-like love of candy (although, unlike a child, I have the means to head out to the store and get more whenever the mood strikes, and no one watching to make sure I save room for dinner).  I enjoy being active, and am constantly chasing my kids and going for walks.  Plus, just carrying one of these guys is a quick workout, now that the oldest is topping 50 pounds.  Try hefting that up to the top bunk 5 times a night.  So being healthy and skinny aren't always the same thing.  As long as I feel like I'm practicing moderation and taking care of my body, it shouldn't matter what size I'm wearing.

The dreaded task: shopping for new jeans

2.  I need to put it in perspective.  I don't have the stats, but I'm pretty sure there are millions of women in the world who wish they were a size 10...from both ends of the spectrum.  Women who are starving and literally don't know where their next meal will come from would be ecstatic to have such a round waist that they have to wear my size 10s.  And women who struggle on the other side, the plus-size, full-figure, Diet Coke-sipping ladies who can't find their size in stores, who resort to mumus to hide their curves...well, if any of you are reading this, don't roll your eyes and write me off because I don't even know what a weight problem is.  I'm in the middle, I'm smaller than Marilyn Monroe, I'm blessed, I get it.  And you all are right.  Being a size 10 is not an international tragedy.  Its just reality.

And the backside...lucky this one didn't get deleted!

3.  I should focus on the positive.  My photographer friend once told me that she hates giving a new bride her wedding proofs, because the first thing she does is find the flaws.  "Oh, my hair looks weird" or "I hate my nose" or "That dress makes my butt look big!"  And she sits there, dumbfounded, because looking through her lens she saw a gorgeous woman on the most exhilarating day of her life looking amazing.  But we all do this, don't we?  We don't look in the mirror and say, I am looking awesome today!  I have the prettiest blue eyes!  I love how this skirt shows off my long, sexy legs!  My lips are just the perfect size!  Personally, my eyes are always drawn to my tummy (flabby), the mole on my chin (how did Cindy Crawford pull this off?), my frizzy hair (0% chance of precipitation my butt!).  My phone rang this afternoon, and it was a friend calling to tell me I'm beautiful, and (for the millionth time) what nice legs I have, and how she wishes she was tall and lean like me.  And I thanked her, because I really needed to hear that.  I've been feeling bad about my looks, particularly feeling fat and unattractive, and it pulled my eyes off the flaws and toward positive.  She's totally right.  I have amazing legs, and I love short summer bottoms that show them off.  Even the ones with a big, old 10 on the tag.

So these are my baby steps, trying to forge a new path toward loving my body.  I would welcome anyone else's perspective, how you love yourself, or even what is your best feature?

What kind of Vert are you?

I had the immense privilege this past weekend to go out of town with a group of ladies who amaze and fascinate me, and perhaps the most amazing part is to realize that I am one of them, that there is a place for me in their group (there's a place here for you, come with us next time!).  As our time together was winding down, I was like an electric charge of energy, despite the very short night of sleep and the assured chaos waiting for me at home.  I thought, I must blog about this experience.  I need to write out what this weekend was for me in order to process how much I loved it (and also to answer my husband's barrage of questions without having to actually talk).  But once I sat before the computer, my brain refused to cooperate.  There was too much, I was exhausted, and it just wasn't going to happen that night.  So I hoped inspiration would come to me this week as I ease back into my every day routine.  And this is the first part that I can properly relay here.

After a day of conversations (how easy it is to talk to each of you...I loved how our words weaved in and out, how we could have one large conversation or 3 smaller ones, how it was more than just noise, but love and encouragement and laughter bringing us together), we ended the day at The Melting Pot for chocolate fondue, coffee, and even more talking.  Then came the question:  Are you an introvert or an extrovert?  Each woman spoke, gave her reasons and examples.  I considered not speaking up, because I was right in Mandy's eyeline, and I just knew that she would disagree with my answer.  Sure enough, when I said, "I'm an introvert," she responded, "What makes you think that?"  Well, dear Mandy, only my lifetime of experience being me.  HA!  But then I thought about it.  Is it possible to change from one to the other?  After spending decades as an introvert, could I have turned into an extrovert?

I am an introvert.  As a child, I lived in my imagination.  My parents love to tell stories about how Rachel could sit in a corner with a dish towel and a stick and entertain herself for hours, making characters and telling stories.  I have always had a small group of close friends, one or two "best friends", and everyone else intimidated me.  I was quiet anywhere public, terrified to talk to new people, completely mute the day a sub showed up to teach my first grade class.  But in private, with my friends or family, the people who knew me best, I was a ham.  I cracked jokes and my voice became loud and I could "be myself".  When I was 12, I found Melissa, my very best friend, and realized something magical had happened.  Because no matter how many strangers or new people I found myself with, as long as Melissa was by my side, I had the courage to be myself, in all of its loud, sarcastic glory.  When we went to separate colleges, I floundered, completely isolated and not knowing how to make a friend without Melissa there.  That was the year I started dating a boy who became the man I married.  And the magic continued.  Because Chris became, not just a crush or a love interest, but a friend.  Over the years, he has become my partner, my other half, and slowly, I have been able to pull back the curtains on my inner self.  And because of this unveiling, I am, for the first time, completely myself, comfortable with who I am and able to be that all the time, not just in certain approved locations, with an exclusive list of people.  I can meet someone new and say "Here I am, this is me!" and be content for them to take it or leave it.  As a mom, I've been forced to push the limits of my own comfort, with children who need an advocate and a spokesperson, being quiet and avoiding new people is just not an option.  Does that mean that I'm an extrovert?  I'm not sure.  I still need some time to myself.  I often escape to my room when my husband gets home and take some much needed alone time, a chance to regroup, be still, have no little hands grabbing at me.

 But I think there's something to Mandy's questioning.  I have moved out of my hiding hole at the extreme end of the introvert spectrum.  It comes from embracing what's inside, and sharing that with a man who welcomes the revelation.  It comes from rising to the role of Mama Bear, being the advance guard for my cubs.  And it comes from a comfort and love that are bigger than all of us, knowing that I am loved by my Creator, that I am living a life that was made just for me.

This I Believe

" And we are not perfect.  We say the wrong thing.  We grow and we change and the words we spoke in the past are words of which we now repent, but that is the nature of sanctification and there is no one exempt from that process."  -Fabs Harford

I believe that words are important.  I believe that what we say and what we write can affect people, and it is our choice to encourage and build people up, or tear others down with our negativity.  So often, as I was growing up, my parents would admonish me to THINK before I spoke, usually as a follow-up to something insensitive or inappropriate that had just come out of my mouth.  I would sigh in exasperation, because the challenge to evaluate all spoken words before enunciating them, and discarding the unnecessary ones, seemed too much for me.  I didn't want to stop long enough to consider my words, I wanted to get them out, to share them with others and join in.  People gave me labels: I was cynical, sarcastic, jaded.

I often wrote as I grew up, I filled notebooks with thoughts and observations.  I still wonder if anyone is ever going to read those words or if they will get thrown away at some point, without being seen by the world.  I want to have influence, I want to share my mind and my feelings, but I lack the confidence that I have anything worth saying.  Then I started a blog.  I began not knowing what to write, and the first year I think I wrote 3 entries.  My husband was the only one to read them.  The next year I posted just once. 

It was surreal to find myself, this lover of words, the mother of a non-verbal child.  I yearned for the day I would hear him speak, when we could converse and share our words and learn more about each other.  It didn't come.  The doctors and the speech therapists and the educators all told me the same word: autism.  They gave other words and phrases, like developmental delay and no imaginative play and isolated and early intervention.  We started therapy and preschool and while he struggled to find his voice, I did too.  I couldn't figure out how to tell people what I was coming to terms with, the reality of having a son with a "disability".  I found myself dropping out of the mom-petition, avoiding playdates and birthday parties and listening with jealousy as the other moms compared their children's milestones.  I wondered if my child would ever use a toilet, make a friend, learn to read or write his name, much less play on a basketball team, speak Spanish, or write a play for his third grade class to perform.

I was scared for my son to receive an official diagnosis.  I was afraid of that word, afraid of what being associated with that word might mean for him.  Would he become a target of bullies?  What other words would they call him, when they saw him riding the "short bus" that is no longer short?  How many times had I made jokes at others' expense, how many times had I declared something "retarded" in my adolescent speaking-before-thinking phase?

But I came to realize its not a word spoken by a doctor in a white coat that I am afraid of.  Its what we are teaching all of our kids about words and about how we treat people who are different from us.  And that's when I found my voice.  I began sharing my opinions and stories and family with the internet, simultaneously afraid that no one would read and afraid that everyone would.  I found, through blogging, that I could form my words, gather my thoughts, and take the time to present an idea without being offensive, hurtful, thoughtless.  Although it can often be a place where people comment without any regard for the fact that a person is on the other end, reading their words, for me, the internet is the place where I finally learned to think before speaking.  I can look at a person's profile picture, I read about their struggles and hopes, and I take my time forming a response.  My hope is that what comes out is different, so that people perceive me differently.  So that they use words like "loving" and "encouraging" to describe me.

Another benefit of speaking boldly for my son and others like him, is that he is now finding his voice.  He is speaking and learning to read; he is expressing his needs and communicating to others.  One of his favorite stories is The Lorax by Dr. Seuss.  I love to hear him loudly proclaim, "I am the Lorax...I speak for the trees, for the trees have no tongues."  Where I once saw myself as speaking for my silent son, now I wonder what voiceless, invisible group he will speak for. 

Catching Negative Thoughts

Yesterday I had the privilege to attend a seminar for Parents and Educators of children with Special Needs. I thought it would be helpful as we make decisions for James' future education, like if he should go to Kindergarten in the fall or do another year of preschool. The keynote speaker, Jennifer Krummins, was truly phenomenal. I felt like we could have spent a whole week together, with her giving me advice and encouragement, and it still would not have been enough. Among the many useful topics she discussed about raising a special needs child was concerning negative thoughts that parents think which hinder their ability to help their child. It really stayed with me, as it is a huge problem that I have, and since it is my thoughts and not something I often say aloud, I don't hear positive reinforcement to counter-act it. Jennifer advised writing down the negative thoughts that go through my mind, then listing thoughts that contradict them to help change the recording I keep playing in my head. So here goes:
1. This is my fault.
2. Why is this happening to me/us?
3. I don't know what I am doing.
4. I am a bad mom and shouldn't be allowed to make decisions for my child.
5. There is no place for my child in his school, at church, in public.
6. My son will never have friends, other kids will be mean to him, I can't protect him.

Unfortunately, some of these messages have been reinforced by other people, either by judgmental attitudes that I encounter or directly speaking them to me. My husband (best husband ever, remember?) tells me to ignore these people, but he doesn't seem to understand how they are just echoing thoughts I already have, which then gives those thoughts credibility. He tries to help think positively, but its easier to believe the bad ones. Some things that Chris says:
1. I'm a good mom.
2. We make good decisions about what is best for James, and we know best how to help him.
3. Its not possible to separate James and all the wonderful things about him from his delays, why would we want to?
4. Intervention has helped James already, and he will only continue to share more and more of himself with us as he becomes able.
And this weekend, I was told
5. Parenting a child like James is a privilege, not a problem. The challenges that arise from raising a child with special needs is an opportunity to grow, not a thorn with which to contend.

A woman I spoke with during a break told me that as my son's mother, I am doing what is best for him, and I just need to trust my instincts. I promptly burst into tears and had to walk away, because I couldn't even hear her words as encouragement, it felt like a slap to all my self-criticism and self-doubt. Maybe someday I will be able to offer words like that to another mom who needs to hear someone say something nice about her or her child, but right now I am still so raw and shell-shocked that I can't even imagine being that collected.

Yesterday was a really emotional day for me. It made me confront the things I try so hard to pretend don't bother me.