That Could Never Happen Here

During my junior year in high school, I started taking college courses, so that after a full day of honors classes and marching band practice, I drove across town to get credit for Intro to Psych and Microeconomics.  It was on that drive, one warm April afternoon, that my Top 40 pop songs were interrupted by breaking news.  Reporters and law enforcement had swarmed to a Colorado high school, responding to shooters inside, murdering their classmates and teachers.  I was perplexed, the same way I would feel on another drive a few years later, listening to the report of airplanes flying into the World Trade Center.  My thoughts were jumbled, trying to make sense of the notion that apparently this happens now.

Denver Rocky Mountain News

People were quick to talk about the WHY, whether the blame lay in bad parenting or violent video games or intense bullying.  It never seemed like much of a mystery to me, with our unformed frontal cortexes and hormonal surges, the anger and loneliness and grandiosity that hid behind our smiles on Picture Day.  The next day, I returned to my high school with a certain amount of fear.  It felt like anyone with access to weapons and a big enough grudge could storm the building and open fire.

I showed up in the school office, where I helped the secretary take attendance and filed paperwork for the vice principal.  We usually talked during the 45 minutes we spent together each day, although in the wake of Columbine, our conversation centered on the tragedy that had taken place on the other side of the country.  Almost 20 years later, I can still remember her words as she looked at me that morning.  "There were BMWs in that parking lot," she said.  As news helicopters had filmed students fleeing the building, her eyes had focused on the makes and models of cars the students had driven to school that morning.  "There are BMWs in our parking lot," she continued.  The peaceful, secure illusion of our affluent suburban town had shattered for her.  If it could happen in Littleton, it could happen here.

I'll admit, I had several years of not following breaking news very closely.  There have been incidents of violence and murder that have flown under my radar.  Yet every school shooting, every child gunned down on a playground or in a classroom, the thought has resurfaced:  that could happen here. Now that my own children are enrolled in our local public school, I watch the enhanced security measures that are put in place each year, the reinforced doors and student dismissal procedures, I hear about the "man with a gun" drill from my 6 year old, and I wonder how truly effective any of it is.  Because THAT COULD HAPPEN HERE, is another lock enough to stop a person with a loaded gun and a mission?

I said my usual prayer this morning as I dropped my boys off at their school, as I watched the police cruiser in the parking lot and the children streaming into the building, dressed up for Picture Day.  I prayed for their safety, for their teachers to be able to do their jobs in peace, for every child showing up at school that day to make it through the day unharmed.  An hour later, I saw the story, reported by our local paper.  It happened here.

Amid the confusion and the fear, there was that same sentiment that my high school secretary had expressed so many years ago, the shock that something like THAT could happen HERE.  As though the price of your home or the designer labels inside your clothes can protect you, as though money can buy your family happiness and inoculate your children's minds from corruption, as though some invisible barrier exists around your zip code and protects you from human nature, from the very worst that we are capable of.

Today was a typical day for our little family, inside the walls of our home.  But it was a very different story across town, on my Facebook feed, as parents held their children close and sirens and helicopters were heard outside.  The danger is all too real for a new group of families, for another community, as questions swirl and peace of mind is long gone.

Outside In

Every other Saturday night, our house fills with delicious smells.  My husband and I take turns making yummy breakfast foods, because every other Sunday morning, we teach the middle school students at our church.  A wise friend once told me something that has proved to be true: you have to love people from the outside in.

When we show up with food, our students will sit with us and allow us to nourish their minds because we are first nourishing their bodies.  Over time, after being consistent with food and honest answers and showing that we care, they will finally allow us into the depths, where their spirits reside.  If we want to reach their souls, we have to start by feeding their endlessly hungry bodies.

It makes sense if you think about it, because we all know how poorly people learn when they are starving, or afraid, or worried about their personal safety.  I learned Maslow's hierarchy years ago in a college sociology class, and yet I can be so intent on what is below the surface of the people I love that I completely ignore their more pressing physical needs.

It shouldn't be complicated, and yet it is.  Sometimes it is tunnel vision, sometimes it is our own ignorance.  I was thinking about my son who is adopted, and the little girl that we fostered a few years ago, about how needy they were when they came to us.  And we wanted to soothe their bodies and fill their bellies and reassure them that they were precious and loved and safe, but we were ignoring the first layer.

Do you know what is most important to a child?  More than food, more than physical safety, more than warm blankets on a clean bed?  His mom.  Psychologist Harry Harlow performed experiments on rhesus monkeys in the 1950s that demonstrated how crucial a mother is to her baby, and the conversations I have with my non-biological children confirms it.  Which means that while we mend the physical and emotional wounds of children who have been neglected and abused, we must also demonstrate love for the adults who allowed it in the first place.  No easy task.

I had a moment of panic the other day when my son reached for a bag of cookies and said, "I've never tried this before.  Let me have some!"  Because I can easily imagine his birth parents saying or thinking something similar when they were introduced to the addictive drugs that derailed their lives. How much are we, as adoptive parents, able to re-write biology?  Is there something ticking inside him that will go off in adolescence and take him down their same path?  Or was it childhood hyperbole that I was reading way too much into?

I don't want my son to repeat his mom's mistakes, and the best way I can think to help him is to let him know her, to be honest about why he lives with us and what unique challenges he'll face as he grows up.  The worst thing I could possibly do is talk about her with disrespect, calling her names or criticizing her choices.  If I can step back and allow him to see her as she is, without casting my own thoughts or feelings onto their relationship, then I trust that he'll understand what is true better.  He won't grow up with some idealized version of her (or me, for that matter), because he will know where he came from.

That Time I Wrote a Novel

When I think back to the happy times of my childhood, I remember books.  I remember getting lost in a story, to the point that I couldn't hear my mom calling my name or my sister asking me to come play with her.  Books truly transported me somewhere else, to Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century, to Sweet Valley, California, to the Orient Express chugging across Europe.  And like many readers before me, I wanted to use my words to move and inspire people.  I wanted to write.

I remember sitting at my desk, a fresh notebook open in front of me, pencil poised to record a new story.  That was the best moment back then, when the possibilities were endless and all I had to do was begin.  So I did.  Again, and again, and again, I began to write.  Sometimes I would fill a page, sometimes several.  But the same thing kept happening.  I didn't know what came next.  I would stop and chew my lip and tap my pencil on the desk.  I was great at inventing a character and setting and describing what was in my head...but then what?  I couldn't come up with a plot.  And because the words didn't just flow out of me (as I imagined they did for Judy Blume and Ann M. Martin and Agatha Christie), I considered myself a failure.

I never quite lost the idea that I would write something someday, that eventually it would all come together in a magical afternoon and I would finally figure out how to progress in my story, and even find the ending.  But when high school came along, followed by college, the focus of my writing turned to book reports and term papers.  There didn't seem to be time to imagine, to create something new, in a world that demanded I learn new information and regurgitate it for a good grade.  I downgraded my goal to writing a children's book after I took a class on Children's Literature in college.  It would be perfect.  The books were shorter, the stories and language simpler.  I could do that.  Please.

Except it's not that easy, if you've ever tried it.  Dr. Seuss deserves all the acclaim he gets for making stories that seem simple and singsongy...except they rhyme and draw from a pool of less than 50 words and tell a whole story in a handful of pages, with pictures to match!  It all began to feel hopeless and impossible as life moved on.  A title would come to me out of nowhere, and I would begin to imagine the story I could tell, but I'd dismiss it after a while as just a dream that would never materialize.

Then I became a mother.  I quit my job and stayed home with my tiny bundle of love and spent hours on the couch, reading classic literature and eating dried fruit while my baby slept on my lap.  And my mind began to wander in ways it couldn't while I was working or in school.  An idea took root, and I took the time to let the story come to me.  Finally, while the baby was asleep and my husband was at work, I snuck off with a pen and a notebook and began to write again.  My first story in over a decade.  There were plenty of stops, followed days or months later by starts.  I didn't put pressure on the idea.  I wasn't thinking about word count or whether people would want to read it.  I wrote what I found inside me.

The end result was a short story entitled "In My Mother's Closet".  To date, only my husband has read it.  I don't know if it's any good, but it was the start I needed.  After another baby, I had another idea.  I sat down late at night over the course of a summer and wrote.  This was it, the idea that had enough depth to become a book.  I was so excited that I showed it to my husband before I even finished the first draft.  I was proud and wanted the ego boost of his support.  Except...he didn't really like it.  He pointed out some holes in the character development and kind of shrugged over it.  It was disappointing, yes, but he was right.  I set it aside for about six months as we welcomed another child into the family.  In the meantime, I did some research.  I read some books on writing, I set a goal for myself to finish, then I pulled up the Word document and re-read it.  Suddenly, the fixes became clear, the edits I needed to make in order to finish the book and present it to my husband for a second opinion.

Because the life of a mother of three young children is hectic and distracting, it took another two years to get to that finished work.  (We added yet another child, a 3 year old foster daughter who left shortly after the book's completion.)  But I did it, I wrote a novel called Every Little Piece!  I shared it with some trusted friends, people who would be honest with me but also kind.  They offered some great suggestions to make it even better.

For the past 18 months, I've been sitting on this book.  I've sent queries to agents and researched the publishing industry and fretted about what to do next.  Four years after I began to write it, my novel is ready for Kindle Direct and becoming an e-book.  I have no idea what will come next, if anyone will read it or like it, but my childhood dream of writing a book has already come true, and now I'm ready to fulfill another goal: becoming a published author.

Friends, I hope you'll check out my book.  I had fun writing it, getting to know my characters and telling their stories.  But more importantly, I hope you'll think back to the thing you loved when you were young, whether it was dancing or playing outside or making jewelry out of dandelions or painting, or maybe even writing the first page of a story.  And I hope that you can let go of whatever distractions or to-do lists have kept you from it.  Find room for that thing to be a part of your life now, without fear or embarrassment.  Return to your first love.

A busy life
Photo credit: We Love Your Love Photography

Buying Groceries and Natural Consequences

During our first year of marriage, Chris and I loved to go to the store together.  We would find new recipes to try and then go buy the ingredients.  We walked down the aisles together with hardly a care in the world (my memory might be making these trips more magical than they were).  We made our own pretzels and mozzarella sticks, we baked meatloaf and ranch chicken, we figured out which foods we both liked.  Then we started having babies.  I remember the first trip to the store after James and I came home from the hospital.  It took two days to get ready, I kid you not.  Because I was recovering from a C-section, Chris had to do the driving, and we spent the whole morning trying to get ready, nursing the baby, taking showers, nursing the baby, packing the diaper bag, nursing the baby, changing his diaper, nursing the baby, and boom, it was time for Chris to leave for work.  We managed to get there the next day, but I found walking around the store was like torture on my post-surgical body.  The baby and I were both ready to cry by the time we got everything we needed.  And that pretty much sums up our experience shopping as a family ever since.

So done

Sometimes we discover tricks to keep the kids happy while we shop, like the purchase of a $1 balloon at the entrance or a cookie when we pass the bakery.  But in general, the boys don't want to be there, and I get grouchy before we make it to the dairy aisle.  Promising a treat at the end of the trip, whether candy doled out in the car, an ice cream cone on the way home, or a trip to the park after, has been working for a while.  Yesterday, we headed out, all five of us, to load up on food for the coming week.  Despite our promise of Chipotle for dinner for the kids who were good listeners and well-behaved in the store, once we were inside, the younger two started bickering.  The whining and fussing was driving me crazy, as were the other adults walking past us and "hiding" their laughter as we asked the boys to stop fighting, to use big boy voices, to just be quiet.  When we reached the checkout, I swear steam was coming out of Chris' ears.

Then we got the question from the boys: "Are we going to Chipotle now?"  NO YOU ARE NOT.  Winston started to cry, Michael looked confused.  WE ARE MISERABLE FROM HAVING SPENT THE LAST 30 MINUTES WITH YOU.  "Why did I fight with my brother?" they cried.  "We don't get a treat!"  GOOD, we said.  REMEMBER THIS FEELING THE NEXT TIME WE GO TO THE STORE.  I was doing a little dance because that is what the experts call "natural consequences" and they are always saying that children learn best that way.  But part of me was also sad.  My tummy was growling and I was looking forward to a Chipotle dinner.  My kids were crying and a little voice whispered that I was being mean and depriving them.  I was glad for Chris, for my partner in raising these little people who helps me stay committed to the right thing even when it isn't the fun thing.

I think we can agree here: it's hard to watch your kids suffer.  Even when it is completely their fault.  Even when they know better.  Even when you gave them warnings and guidelines and were as clear as you possibly could be.  Even when they turned away from you and made bad choices.

Before I went to bed last night, I pulled out my Bible to continue reading the book of Isaiah in the Old Testament.  It was my plan this summer to read through all of Isaiah, but I've only read the first few chapters. (No spoilers!) Anyway, Isaiah begins with a prophecy of destruction for God's people.  This is the Old Testament, wrathful God that makes me uncomfortable.  The description of what is coming is not good, lots of gross, over the top violence and evil unleashed.  In the past, I have found it hard to reconcile this God with the loving Father God of the New Testament, the God who offers grace and mercy freely, the God who heals lepers and feeds the hungry and welcomes men, women, and children into his embrace.  This summer, I'm beginning to see the piece that I was missing, the part that connects OT God to NT God.  God created us in his image and he gave us the law to show us how to live, to control the spread of disease, to cherish life, to worship the one who made us.  Isaiah is very clear.  God's people have rejected his law, they have ignored his commands.  Like any concerned parent, God must give consequences.  It seems extreme to read, but my sons felt like missing out on Chipotle was pretty extreme.  It's human nature to think, Why can't I just keep doing what I want to do without having to suffer for it?

Everyone deserves a treat

But it doesn't end there, not for God, and not for me.  Because it hurts to see our kids hurt.  So there is this, in Isaiah 9: "Nevertheless, that time of darkness and despair will not go on forever...The people who live in darkness will see a great light.  For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine."  No dark night, no punishment, no necessary destruction lasts forever.  With God, there is always sun in the morning, freedom for captives, a time to rebuild.  God's mercy is new every morning, or so Lamentations tells us.  There's another trip to the store next weekend, another chance to get Chipotle, a light in the darkness.  But my stubborn children (and my stubborn self) need those consequences, we need that pain to point us back to the light.  It's a lesson worth remembering that a charmed life served on a silver platter is not the way to bring peace or develop wisdom.  But leaning in to difficult moments and painful consequences can teach us to do better.

Because It's Just a Phase

I went out for a date tonight with my husband.  It was sunny and cool and I was hungry, so we went to a restaurant and talked about the big stuff and laughed about the little stuff and shared our food with each other and held hands.  And somewhere between the mozzarella sticks and the ice cream I started thinking about my friends, so many of whom have become parents this past year.  I was thinking about you all and wondering if you're having trouble getting out of the house and leaving the baby with someone else.  (Maybe you are the one having a hard time, maybe the kiddo is screaming when you pass her off to Grandma, maybe it's a little of both.)  Whew, I remember those days.

First-time parents, 2007

I remember when James was just a month old and my parents came over at dinner time and they said, "Leave the baby with us.  Go meet Chris for dinner."  See back in those days, my husband took classes in the mornings and worked all afternoon and came home around 11pm.  I had just stopped working to take care of the baby and didn't really know what I was supposed to be doing all day.  (I watched old seasons of Gilmore Girls and read novels and took the baby for a walk most days.)  So with my parents pushing me out the door, I headed over to my husband's work and met him for his dinner break and we went to Taco Bell and stared at each other until finally he said, "This feels weird."  Because it had been just the two of us for a while, we'd done this plenty of times, but now we were three, and it felt strange to be without the baby.

First Father's Day, 2007

Those early days of parenthood are around-the-clock marathons of giving and sacrificing and bonding so intensely with this new little person.  And it took months, no--years, for us to be able to walk out the door without our little kid screaming and crying and chasing after us.  There were times when I changed my mind about leaving.  Times when it just didn't feel right, I didn't trust the person who was supposed to be taking care of him, so I didn't go.  But there were other times when I knew he would calm down and have fun, I just had to leave and let him realize that other people could take care of him for awhile.  I needed to realize that other people could take care of him too.

Imaginative Play, 2013

But tonight...the boys were invited to come make cookies with Nana, so we loaded up the car.  Everybody grabbed their shoes and socks, and with a little help from us, we were all ready to go.  We pulled in my parents' driveway and there were squeals of delight from the back seat.  "NANA'S HOUSE!!"  I got out of the car, but the kids were already through the door and shoes were off again and by the time I walked inside, they had all dispersed to different corners.  I said a quick hi and thanks to my mom for the opportunity to go out, and as I turned to go, Mikey came running around the corner.  "Hey buddy, I'll see you in a little bit!" I said.  "Okay Mommy, bye bye!" he called over his shoulder as he kept running.

Birthday Bowling, 2014

And it hit me.  You guys, it's just a phase.  Those days of guilt and ambivalence and crying every time you leave...it doesn't last forever.  Those summer afternoons of breastfeeding and napping and bleary-eyed everything.  Those days of camera constantly in hand to document all the amazing, breath-taking NEWNESS.  Those frustrating hours when you just want them to sleep a little so you can look at Facebook or read a magazine or take a shower.  Those moments of doubt when you're sure you're getting it all so very wrong because it just doesn't look like how you thought it would look, your kid doesn't seem to be doing all the stuff the other kids are doing, your hair is messed and all the other moms seem fashionable and put-together.  It's just a phase.  I promise you, just keep going.  You can get through this day and this hour and this moment.  You can do this!!  You are the only person uniquely qualified to care for this little person.  To him, you are the master of the universe.  You control the weather and you make the food and you carry him around and your smile is like seeing the face of God.  And it won't last forever, this 24 hour caregiving.  There will come a day when you drop your kids off at the grandparents' house and they barely notice you leaving.  There will come a day when they walk to the playground with their brother or a friend and you stay behind.  There will come a day when they start reading books to themselves at night while you sit in the other room.  And those are all good things.  Because it's just another phase.

Spreading His Wings, 2014

Autism Speaks Doesn't Speak for Me

A few years back, I signed my family up for our local Autism Speaks fundraiser walk.  I was looking forward to an activity we could all do together, surrounded by people who wouldn't think us odd or unruly.  I was happy to raise money and encourage my friends and family to do the same; after all, Autism Speaks was the only organization I'd heard of for people like my son, recently diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum Disorder.  We arrived on the morning of the walk, a sunny Sunday that was perfect for spending time outside at our local park.  We converged with many other families.  We saw large groups wearing matching shirts; we saw men dressed as superheroes and women dressed as princesses.  It was my first experience with an autism community after an isolating couple of years filled with tests and questions and frustration.  I kept looking around in wonder that there were so many people like us, that we had found a place where our son could be accepted easily.

Wearing blue as we walk for Autism Speaks 2012

There was something else I noticed that morning.  The walk organizers had posted signs along our path announcing statistics about autism.  There was one stating the latest CDC findings of autism occurrence.  There were signs about the cost of treating autism.  It was good to remind us why we were walking.  It was good to spread awareness among the walkers and anyone else out that morning.    But I got uncomfortable when I saw the sign comparing autism to pediatric cancer and AIDS ("More children are diagnosed with autism than pediatric cancer and AIDS combined.")  After all, autism affects my son's mind; it makes him process information differently.  But cancer and AIDS...they affect the body.  They make children sick.  They require lengthy hospital stays and expensive medication.  And they are lethal.  Autism will never take my son's life.  A lack of support and understanding by strangers could very well put him in danger, something that has happened to autistic teenagers and adults who have been unable to communicate properly with police officers and other public officials.  Beyond that, I am thankful every day to be the mother of healthy children, to be able to send my kids to public school, to barely give cold and flu season a passing thought.  The comparison of neurology and immunology seems ridiculous.  Then I saw some walkers carrying signs which demanded a cure.  A cure?  For autism?  Therapy, sure.  Assistive technology to bridge the differences between my son's mind and the neurotypical world in which he lives, of course.  But what would we be curing?  If some medication took away my child's autism, what would be left?

I went home feeling unsettled, but not sure what it meant.  Over the coming months, I learned more about the organization we had been supporting for our walk.  Autism Speaks.  What a great name.  For the confused and desperate parents trying to figure out how to best care for a non-verbal child, what a promise it offers!  They state on their webpage that their goal is "to change the future for all who struggle with autism spectrum disorders."  That's something this advocate mama can get behind. But how are they actually doing that?  What percentage of the money raised from walks like the one my family participated in is being used to alleviate the "struggle" of autistic individuals?  I read a book called "Raising Cubby", which introduced me to its author (and awesome role model for my son), John Elder Robison.  The book offered insight into the experiences of growing up autistic, the criticism and confusion he experienced, as well as the jobs and discoveries his mental makeup allowed him to excel at.  And then I read his blog about resigning from Autism Speaks after his efforts to be heard were repeatedly ignored.  He writes, "We do not like hearing that we are defective or diseased.  We do not like hearing that we are part of an epidemic.  We are not problems for our parents or society, or genes to be eliminated. We are people."  This resonated with my feelings after the walk; this put words to the twist in my stomach.  My son is not sick.  My son is not a problem or a burden.  And an organization that describes itself as changing the future for autistic people shouldn't be misleading the public about what exactly they struggle with.

I found more perspective on my beloved Diary of a Mom blog.  I read her words and nodded.  Yes.  YES.  This organization that compares my son's brain to an immunodeficient body is missing it.  They are missing what it is like to live with autism.  They are missing what is going on inside that beautiful brain.  This organization that claims my son is a burden is missing it.  They are missing the joy we experience every day as a family of five.  They are missing the laughter and chatter coming from the bedroom he shares with his brother long after the lights have been turned off.  This organization who claims that my son is MSSNG, or that he is MSSNG some vital component of humanity, they are missing it.  They are missing the vital presence of autistic people.  They are missing the conversation autistic advocates are desperate to have.  They are speaking, but they don't speak for our family.  They don't speak for my son.  

He is learning every day, he is gaining words and the skills to express himself.  We are equipping him to speak and stand up for himself.  And the greatest opportunity we can give him is to listen.  That voice, oh how that voice delights me.  If he's angry, he tells me.  And I want to know: Why are you angry?  What do you do with those feelings?  What can I do to help you?  If he's happy, he tells me.  And I want to know: What makes you happy?  What can I do to make you feel happy more often?  And sometimes he just laughs.  I don't know why, it's something that only he is seeing or hearing.  So guess what I do?  I laugh with him.  It doesn't really matter what's causing it, honestly.  I love an excuse to let out a good belly laugh.  And then he looks at me, as we laugh together, and often he hugs me as we experience this happy moment.

So this is my plea, today and every day:  Don't support Autism Speaks.  Give your money to an organization that will actually use it to help autistic people right now.  How will you know which one is doing that?  Use this guideline, shared so generously by John Elder Robison:

"What we need right now are therapies to help us be the best we can be, as we actually are.  We need tools to help us overcome physical limitations.  We need solutions for the medical problems that plague many people on the autism spectrum.  Those are things autistic people – child and adult alike – want and need right now.  The range of therapies, tools, treatments, and services needed is long and varied – and largely attainable, given the budget and the focus.

We also want societal change and acceptance.  We want sensory friendly workplaces.  We want jobs shaped to our different abilities.  We want help navigating the education and employment mazes.  We want to be productive members of society.  Those too are things we want and need right now.  They too are attainable given the resolve, budget, and legislation to back it up."

In the Tension

I first came across this phrase "in the tension" when I read Rob Bell's book "Sex God" several years ago.  In it, he describes living in the tension through the lens of body and soul.  We aren't animals or angels, he explains, but a mix of the two, and when we satisfy our bodies, we can't disrupt our peace of mind.  Likewise, we must keep our peace of mind without depriving our bodies.  I thought it to be one of the most true things I've ever read.  In this particular book, the tension is in sexuality.  Yes, we have desires in our bodies, but instead of treating sex as though we are at Baskin Robbins and must try all 31 flavors, we should ground it in a monogamous relationship that is mutually beneficial (you know, like marriage), therefore satisfying the body and bringing peace to the mind.  I thought of this again today as I sat in church and listened to a man describing a trip to a garbage dump in Ecuador, where people search for food to feed their families, and recyclables to trade for nickels and dimes to provide everything else the family needs.  Then I went home and looked in the cupboards (full), the fridge (half-full), the freezer (overflowing), and wanted to whine that there was nothing that looked good to eat.  Because, you know, I just brought home a trunk full of groceries two days ago.  How can I sit in my kitchen and satisfy my body, eating fresh bread and cherries, drinking cold water and Coke, defrost some chicken breasts for dinner, while these families to the south (and really, all around me) are going hungry?  How can I balance a peace of spirit with a tummy that's used to eating good food a few times each day?  I think I would stuff my pockets with ten dollar bills and walk through the garbage dump handing them out.  But would that be culturally sensitive?  Would it insult the people it was meant to bless?  There's a much bigger tension than the desire to experience fidelity in my marriage.

Parenting is another example of the tension.  Because we want to hold our children close and breathe in their special childhood scents, but we also want them to grow and develop and eventually leave the home we have so lovingly nurtured for them so that they can create homes and families of their own.  As much as I am looking forward to the start of school in about 5.5 weeks, I know I'll get teary when I take the boys to pick out lunch boxes and fill our cart with pencils and glue and safety scissors.  I have loved having them home with me this summer, I have loved our morning cuddles and our afternoon quiet and our long walks and outdoor exploration.  I have delighted in their kisses and declarations of love, a new thing around here.  But I have also cheered wildly as they learned to ride their bikes and enjoyed the ease of family outings now that they can help carry the load and stay longer at fun places like the amusement park and the pool.  I have had moments of congratulatory parenting as I stood in the hall and listened to the boys settle an argument and return to their play, because YES I taught them something! but Oh wait, I'm no longer needed.  Likewise when they get their own snacks it is liberating but also sad.  So I live in the tension of giving them the love and security they need but also encouraging their independence.

Tension exists where there is no easy fix, where two things battle for dominance.  Or tension is the place we choose to be when we acknowledge the duality of our lives.  Tension is hard; tension is good.  Tension can drain us, or tension can make us aware. 

"In this tension something beautiful and compelling happens...you find language to say 'It's great to be you.'"  Jason Morriss, Austin New Church

An Update on My Heart

I got more than my usual number of pageviews when I wrote about our little Girl leaving to return to her family, and I so appreciate the support and encouragement that you all have given to me and my family, not just in the past few weeks, but in the past several months.  This was a very challenging placement, full of highs and lows and non-stop work.  I felt the need to update everyone about how I'm doing, lest you think my summer has been spent on the brink of full-blown depression.

We said goodbye on June 26th.  I had been packing her stuff gradually so it wouldn't all come on one day, but it was still a rush to get everything together.  I wanted to get it all out at once because I thought I might lose it if I opened a door or pulled out a drawer and found something of hers.  Well, I didn't get it all, although I did get most of it.  There were some clothes still in the laundry, a few toys that had wandered under the couch.  But seeing them did not have the devastating effect I thought they might.  Instead, finding Doc McStuffins under a pile of clothes and pink and white sneakers in the basement made me smile.  I put the leftovers in a bag and was able to take it over to her grandma's house the following week, which gave me the extra benefit of seeing Girl again.  We dropped her off in the morning, and it was just Michael and me, since Chris was at work and the boys had VBS.  I thought it was better that way, since I could focus on saying goodbye, and I thought Michael would benefit from actually seeing her go to another house, to know that she was going to live with an adult who would take care of her, to give him closure.  Because the family was so scattered that morning, we took the night before to say our goodbyes properly.  We explained to Girl that she was moving to Grandma's house, that this wasn't a sleepover, but a permanent move.  She got excited and smiled big.  Then she asked me if I would be mad at her for leaving.  I shared on my facebook page the response I gave her, which is that I was only sad to have to say goodbye.  We had talked before about how she would always be part of our family, even if she didn't live in our house.  Then she proceeded to say, "I think Daddy will miss me.  And Michael will miss me.  And James will miss me, and Winston too."  We were all there and said yes, she would be missed.  We took turns giving her hugs, telling her that she was loved and precious to us.

When the car was unloaded, when it was time to get going, she didn't want to say goodbye.  She didn't want to hug us, but that's pretty typical for her.  I never forced her to give hugs or kisses if she didn't want to, I felt like she needed to have that choice respected, and it made her rare moments of physical affection mean more.  So we left.  I spent the morning with Michael, then we picked up the boys and went home.  And I crashed.  I fed the kids and got them in their rooms for quiet time, and I laid down and cried.  For a few days, I just felt this heaviness on me, this weight on my chest, and it was exhausting.  I slept quite a bit, and my darling husband really stepped in and gave me space to crumble.  He took our boys to the pool and let me sleep, he took them to the park while I lay on the couch.  Then he suggested that we do a family activity.  We picked up pizza and went to a park.  We ate together and the kids ran around and then James wanted to go for a walk, so I followed him.  It was exactly what I needed.  I needed to get out of the house, I needed to remember how amazing my kids are, I needed to feel love and togetherness and FAMILY.  Because this giving, giving, giving is hard work.  The appointments and the medicine and the personality differences and the trauma that manifested itself over the past 8 months took everything I had.  The boys have taken it easy on me the past few weeks, they have been pretty calm and good to each other and very loving to me.  I feel like there is room for them again, on my lap, in my arms, they are filling up the silence the Girl left with their funny observations and silly games, and they are my joy.

Not many people get this experience, I think, of adding a fourth child and then reverting back to a family of five within the year.  Because what's interesting is that we got used to it, how much food to make, how much time to allot for, how to do baths and dentist appointments and school drop offs.  So now there is all this time, this space, this freedom.  The boys are pretty low maintenance.  They are content to hang out in their jammies, to watch movies or run around the yard catching bugs.  They don't really fight, they don't cry too much, overall the drama has pretty much gone away around here.  There is an element of relief to this saying goodbye that has gotten me through.

Although they don't talk about it much, I think the kids notice her absence too.  I noticed the day after she left how they had abandoned our rules for being fully clothed around the house.  A DAY people.  After almost a year of having a sister, they were in their underwear, shirts off, penises hanging out on the couch(that one I nipped in the bud, because the Girl might be gone, but Mommy has no desire to see it either).  A week after she had left, we went swimming, and as we were pulling out of the driveway, Winston, suddenly in a panic, said, "We forgot the Girl!  There are supposed to be six of us!"  We explained again that she didn't live with us anymore, that it was five again, and everyone was in the car who needed to be there.  I still see and hear her in Michael, which I figured he would be the kid who was most influenced by her.  But without her to feed off of, to egg him on, even Mikey is calming down.

I mentioned in the previous post how we had just hung our family picture with all of us in it when I got the call that she was leaving.  I then printed out some candids I had taken recently, and filled some new frames with images of our beautiful children, our family, and hung them on the walls.  I find that I like glancing across the room and seeing her huge smile, and remembering that even though it was hard, it was good too.  I think of her leaning against my shoulder while I read stories, how we held hands and prayed at night, all the times I carried her and tickled her and swung her around.  And I'm grateful for the time I got to spend as her mom.

PS-- No more ethnic hair care dilemmas.  That's what I'm most glad to be done with.

Child Abuse: Why?

I have little kids who are still learning how to communicate.  It's exciting to hear them finally express themselves verbally, to hear what they are noticing and thinking and what is important to them.  It's also really cool when they finally answer my questions.  Who hit you?  (Winston) Where did you get that?  (from your closet) What's in your mouth?  (that candy you were trying to hide) But then I ask WHY? and they are still not sure how to answer that.  (Winston, WHY did you hit her? To make the little girl cry.  Really? Because that's kind of psycho.  We need to work on that, buddy.)  And it is a daily frustration to get some of the information, but still have this nagging WHY that goes unanswered.

Child abuse is like that.  We can say What happened.  We can prosecute Who did it.  We can avoid returning to Where it happened.  But many of us are left with this question: Why?  My very young brain tried so hard to answer this question in the silence.  If I had reported it, maybe some adult would have helped me figure it out, but I didn't speak of it, and so I tried to make sense of it on my own.  Was there something wrong with me?  Something that made him target me?  Was it luck, or, more accurately, a lack thereof?  As I got older, the world unknowingly provided other possible answers.  Was I asking for it?  Was I doing something unconsciously that drew his attention?  Maybe if I had fought or yelled, would he have left me alone?

Here's what I've come to realize in the past few years, although maybe the Why can never be completely put to rest...it happened because I was little and he was big.  It happened because we were alone, probably by design.  It happened because he was pretty sure I wouldn't tell.  Maybe he tested me in other ways beforehand, pushing the limits, seeing if bit him and ran off screaming or became still and quiet.  It happened because this world that we live in feasts on the souls of children, and there aren't enough good people to stand up and defend them.  It happened because there is darkness all around.

This can't be how it goes.  Do you know how to get rid of darkness?  SHINE A LIGHT.  That's something else I've learned recently.  So here's a new question, a much more relevant one than Why?  We need to ask How?  How do I shine my light?  How do I stand between a child and someone who means them harm?  Start by being the safe person.  Don't hurt kids.  Remember when you speak to them and look at them and care for them that they are PRECIOUS.  Ask yourself if you would be doing this if someone else were with you.  I started with the two children I gave birth to.  I vowed to be their safe place.  That expanded to another son who joined our family through adoption, and a girl who lives with us through foster care.  Then we added some kids in our neighborhood.  Now it pretty much includes every kid whose name I know, whose path crosses mine.

Our little girl told me last week about a fight she witnessed, about a man hurting a woman, even though the woman yelled stop.  She said, "He has strong arms, so he punched her."  But that's not okay, I told her.  Just because he could doesn't mean he should.  Do you understand? (please tell me you understand, please tell me that you won't let someone treat you that way someday, please let this one thing be what you remember from your time with our family)  And she said, "My daddy  (Chris) has strong arms, but he swings me around.  I like that."  Yes!  Not all men hit.  Strength shouldn't be used to oppress, it should be used to protect.  I'm so glad that she made that connection.  I'm so glad my husband can show her what a good man looks like.  And I hope she can realize Why.  Why he chooses to use his arms to hug and hold and embrace and defend.  Because Jesus did it first.

Happy birthday (and Autism Awareness)

April is Autism Awareness month.  It's special to me because I spend all year becoming more aware of autism, learning about it so I can be a better mother to my son James.  It's a funny turn of events, since James was born at the end of March, so our celebration of him turns into a month of trying to better educate those around us to understand this thing that affects how he interacts with the world.

So let's start here:
Autism is characterized by three things.
1. Social interaction.  Autistic people can be shy or outgoing, but they will struggle to know how to connect with other people, often characterized by limited eye contact, trouble taking turns, and becoming overwhelmed by the presence of "too much" (too much...noise, light, physical touch, etc).
2. Delays in verbal and nonverbal communication.  Some autistics will never speak, but this should not be confused for having nothing to say.
3. Repetitive, stereotyped behaviors.  Don't all kids flap their hands when they get really excited?  Or repeat the same phrase over and over when they get overwhelmed?  Or just make random sounds at seemingly inconvenient times?  No? 

Now let's talk about autism and birthdays.
James began using single words around age four and a half, and we were like starving people who can only be fed with verbal communication.  "Say it again!" we'd cheer.  Whatever seemed to cause him to speak would be repeated over and over so we could hear his beautiful voice.  Just in the past six months, his words have really taken off, and he's using sentences and sometimes really loudly and clearly telling his little siblings what he doesn't like (it's true, I stand outside the boys' room and do a little happy dance when I hear his scream, "No Winston!  That's James' car!  Give me that!").  I really want him to have good manners, but for now, I'm applauding what I see as the seeds of self-advocacy that will help him later on.  Okay.  So apparently when you have a March birthday, you begin inventory the day after Christmas: what you got, what you want, how many days until I get presents again?  For the past few years, James has better understood the concept of time, the months, days passing, etc, so we start our countdown to March 30th.  He's had a recent renewed interest in Pixar "Cars"; combine that with his ability to navigate YouTube and find commercials for products that are no longer sold in stores...I've been getting a very specific request for the four cars he didn't previously have (if you're interested, they are Raoul CaRoule, Rip Clutchgoneski, Lewis Hamilton, and Shu Todoroki.  He would like the die-cast models to complete his World Grand Prix lineup.  Every day).  I was thrilled to find three of these at Target (on sale, no less) about a month ago, but several trips have come up empty for the Lewis Hamilton car.  When I checked Amazon, he was available....for $12.  So I let James know that *maybe* he was getting some new cars for his birthday, and if he got birthday money from the great-grandparents, he could purchase the rest.  And maybe this all seems mundane, not worthy of note...but he's telling us this.  With his words.  That is so HUGE.

We've been talking lately about the love languages, and how we should really try to love other people in the way that they feel loved (which is almost always NOT the way that we prefer to give love).  I thought about this as it pertains to parenting, and specifically to my child who is so easily overwhelmed, so inside himself.  I really wanted to watch him open his cars today.  I wanted to see the look on his face, and, if I'm honest, I really wish he would look at me and say something like, "Oh, thank you so much mom!  It's exactly what I wanted!"  But I'm not an early riser, and I'm certainly not "together" or even really "awake" until 11am or so.  After I talked it over with Chris, I grabbed the cars from their hiding spot, unwrapped, and put them in James' bed after he fell asleep.  This kid has been looking forward to playing with these cars for THREE MONTHS.  If it was all about me, and getting some sort of response for how awesome I am at buying toy cars, then I would have made him wait until this afternoon, so I could really appreciate his reaction.  But instead, I did what I thought he would like, and just cut to the chase.  Chris heard him squealing in his room at 7am, and he had at least two cars in his hands at all times today.  I think we did it right.

Another change we've made over the years is the way we celebrate James' birthday.  My instinct is to gather together in one place all the people who love James.  Family, teachers, friends, neighbors.  Let's spend two hours at our house, talking and laughing and eating and watching James open presents.  Guess who freaks out in such an environment?  So we pulled back.  We had immediate family over for cupcakes.  We shrugged at each other.  How do we make this special FOR HIM?  Last year, we tried something new.  James' birthday almost always falls over spring break, so Chris took the week off, and we did something different every day.  We went to the Cleveland Zoo.  We played at the park.  We went to Red Robin for dinner.  Each place was fun, and then we went home to relax.  It seemed to work.  This year, I asked James for his input.  "How would you like to celebrate your birthday?" I asked him as we snuggled in his bed at night.  "I want to go to Pump It Up," he whispered to me.  Again, this might seem really basic, but this thing of me asking a question and him responding to it in a way that makes sense to me....it's a rare treat.  Okay mister, you are going to Pump It Up!  We arranged to meet another family with boys James' age for an afternoon of jumping.  It was perfect.  Then my parents asked if we could all go bowling together, another of James' favorite activities.  We brought Winston and Girl, and invited our neighbor Amanda at the last minute, and she brought her friend Katie.  At eight people, it was almost too much.  But we had a great time, and James figured out how to hold the ball with his fingers in the holes, instead of rolling with both hands.  As we were leaving, another kid's birthday party arrived.  There were at least 10 young kids, and as many adults chasing them around, helping them bowl.  It made a contrast to our quieter celebration, but I was glad we chose to do it in a way that made James comfortable.

Instead of a cake, this year Chris suggested putting a candle in James' birthday donut.  We all sat at the table while he sat on the heating vent in the kitchen, and we sang "Happy Birthday".  When the song ended, James stood up and blew out the candle with a big smile on his face.  I was smiling too.  Our journey as parents has been influenced by the children we've been given.  A while ago, I started praying that God would show me how to be the best mom for James, for Winston, for Michael.  Not to be the mom that all the other moms want to be, or the mom with the best facebook photos, or even the kind of mom I think I should be.  Just who they need me to be.  I swear God is speaking through my kids every day.  And I'm finally learning how to listen.

Diary of a Mom shared this facebook status today, which I feel echoes how we celebrated James' birthday:
"Today, we celebrated her eleventh birthday. She was having a blast until she became overwhelmed. When she did, she said, "I'm going into the den because there's too much here." This time, I fought the instinct to convince her to stay. This was her party. She'd enjoy it in her way.

She left her guests in the kitchen and went into the den to bounce on her peanut. When the next animal came out, I called her. She came to look, was the first one to pet it, then went back to bounce again. When the next animal came out, so did she. It worked for her. She knew what she needed. And I, finally, knew enough to understand that there was nothing sad or "disastrous" about giving it to her.

After she blew out her candles, she said to no one and everyone, "This has been my best birthday of ever!"

I dare say we're all getting the hang of it."

It's OK to miss your mama

As a foster parent, I've spent quite a bit of time in class over the past three years.  We took 36 hours (12-3 hour classes) just to get licensed, and we take 20 hours each subsequent year.  Sometimes the classes are really helpful, the teacher is passionate and I'm in the right mood to learn.  Other times, the teacher has trouble with the Power Point (or DVD player, or projector, really these teachers need to take a class on using technology before being released to instruct others), or I'm tired and have trouble concentrating, or another parent hijacks the class to air their grievances or get help specific to their situation.  Usually in the course of 3 hours, I can get at least one thing to take home and apply.  Especially in the beginning, I had to save these lessons for future use.  Now that we are in the thick of it, I find that I remember the words of my teachers more and more.  One thing that stood out to me, in a class about maintaining information about birth families, was the instructor's explanation that just because your kid isn't talking about something, doesn't mean he isn't thinking about it.  If a child is separated from siblings, or parents, or another close relative, odds are their thoughts are never far from that person.  She said foster parents have to open the dialogue, and let the kids know that it's OKAY to talk, it's okay to say you wish you were back home, that you miss your family, even that parent that beat you black and blue.  That really resonated with me; after all, I kept in almost everything that I thought about as a child.  I've been thinking lately that I really should have spoken up to my parents about many things that I kept secret, because they probably could have made things better, helped me.

So when a child comes to my home to live, under confusing and possibly scary circumstances, I have no doubt that they are thinking way more than they are saying.  Foster kids learn to say whatever they think the other person wants to hear; they don't know when they will see their biological family again, what the new rules are, where they fit in this new family.  While fostering is definitely similar to more traditional parenting, with the preparation of meals and the wiping of noses, the bedtime stories and trips to the park, there is an added component of nurture that these classes are meant to teach.  The most important part of foster care is the healing, taking in a broken child with no foundation, no structure, no good examples, and transforming them into a whole person, someone who knows his worth, who knows there is another way to live than what he's seen first-hand.  Sometimes these conversations are difficult to start, but if I don't help my kids heal, then what am I doing?

Our current placement is a young girl.  She came to us on a Friday afternoon.  We didn't know much about her, except that she is an only child.  She really enjoyed the experience of having other kids to play with, and jumped right in with our boys, rolling in the leaves and driving trucks across the living room.  But at night, she would cry.  She would ask me to take her home, to her mom.  And I would feel so helpless when I told her no, that she would stay with us until her worker said different.  It's a complicated situation to explain, and I've tried many different ways of phrasing.  We talk about this several times a week.  We've also gone to the library and perused books about parents and children who are separated.  I found one picture book called "I Miss You Everyday", which I believe was written for children whose parents divorce and one lives far away.  In it, the narrator mails herself across the country to see her dad.  Another one, "Llama Llama Misses Mama", is about a little Llama who starts school and has trouble when his mom leaves for the day.  This has actually become a favorite of all our kids, since three of them are in school and have experienced this kind of separation.  But our foster daughter loves it most, and these days, she asks to read it at bedtime instead of crying for her mom.  In the middle of the story, it all becomes too much for the Llama, and he cries out, "Llama Llama misses Mama!"  His teacher rushes over to comfort him, and our Girl burrows deeper into my side.  "Don't cry little Llama, it's okay to miss your mama!" I read.  Then the Llama warms up to school and actually starts to have fun, just as the words "Mama Llama, you came back!" appear with a picture of the Mama coming to pick up her son.  Although our girl can't read, she excitedly says the words at just the right time, and her face lights up in a smile.  I smile too, picturing with her the day when her mama comes to get her.  When she no longer has to miss her mama.