Chocolate Hair/Vanilla Care: A Rant

It took six months, but it finally happened: I was accosted at the store by two black ladies who criticized the way my foster daughter's hair looked.  It is hard to be the one being judged, and especially I take criticism of my parenting extremely personally, and I'm having a hard time just letting this one go.  So here is my rant, all the things I wish time and circumstance had allotted for, and I hope that people will read this and try to adjust how they speak to others about such issues.  (I find myself REALLY wishing that I had a huge black woman following, but sadly, I fear that this blog might not be read by any.  Let me know if I'm wrong.)

Let me start by saying that I understand that hair care is part of the whole caregiver repertoire.  To that end, I have taken classes, researched styles and products, asked my black friends (and a few strangers who had the misfortune of being in the hair care aisle with me) for help.  It is a learning process, especially for someone who does very little with her own hair, and was blessed with three sons who require very little maintenance in that respect.  I am definitely still learning, trying to understand what healthy hair looks like, and it's not easy when there are differences of opinion and conflicting advice.  I am trying to do what is best for my Girl.

Because, secondly, she is not in foster care because her hair was jacked up.  She was taken from her mother because her physical safety, her very tender precious LIFE was in danger.  And because of that, my priorities in her care are first to keep her safe, to help maintain her health, second to tend to her broken heart and be a source of comfort since she is going through a very difficult time.  The way her hair looks comes at the bottom of a long list that includes positive life experiences, educational opportunities, spiritual development, having enough food to eat, a safe place to sleep, and teaching her rules and boundaries.  In these areas, I feel like I'm doing a pretty good job, and her caseworker AND biological mother agree.

Another reason her hair doesn't look great is that she is three, and a bit of a tomboy.  She tolerates medicine better than she tolerates hair care, whether it is me running a comb and some product through or getting braids done by my new best friend Shaquana.  She rubs her hair on the couch, pulls out beads and barrettes, rolls around in leaves and dirt and grass.  Her hair gets messy, dirty sometimes, and styles come out.  If given a choice between letting her be a kid and keeping her hair looking nice, I will let her be a kid EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.  She has witnessed too much for her young age, and I refuse to hurry her childhood any more than it already has been.

Finally, I'd like to address what was said to me, and what ultimately turned this into a negative experience.  I was pushing Girl in a grocery cart, along with my son James, when a woman approached me and told me I needed to get a specific product to put in her hair.  I stopped because, as I mentioned before, I am trying to learn and do better.  I'd never heard of the product she mentioned, so I asked more about it.  Another woman was walking by and joined in the conversation, and what I had thought would be a conversation turned into a verbal assault.  The two of them went back and forth on either side of my cart, RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY CHILD, and the advice about getting this hair product gave way to a general admonishment of how her hair looked.  "You shouldn't have brought her out looking like that," the woman told me.  Without giving me a chance to speak, she went on, "You're a foster parent right?" I nodded.  "They give you money, take her somewhere and spend some of that money on her," was her response.  At this point, I was shocked, and the other woman began to back away, saying, "No offense intended," but the first woman, the one who stopped me in the first place, the one who worked at the store I had just spent money at, went on.  "Put a hat on her or something.  You wouldn't take your own children out like that," were her final words as she turned away and left me face to face with a little Girl who was patting her hair and looking confused.

This is where we come face to face with Assumption and Humiliation.  Because yes, I am a foster mom and yes, "they" do give me money, and hey, guess what?  I do spend that money on her.  I pay a woman (remember, my new best friend?) to braid her hair every couple of weeks.  I buy fancy shampoo and conditioner from the health food store, not to mention a variety of detangling and moisturizing products.  She has her own set of combs, barrettes, beads, rubber bands, and headbands that we have purchased for her.  Not to mention the money we spend to clothe her, feed her, transport her to school, the activities that we do, like swimming and gymnastics.  As for my "own" kids (which is a whole other thing, because, um yeah, she IS one of "my" kids now), just ask my mom how nice their hair looks.  She will be the first to tell you the only times my boys' hair gets combed is at her house or at the barber shop.  They walk around with bedhead, they go too long between cuts, they suffer terrible hack jobs when they get gum or burrs stuck in their hair.  I spend more time, energy, and money on Girl's hair than my entire family COMBINED.  And if you've been paying attention, she doesn't keep pretty things in her hair.  She pulls out twists and braids, accessories (we've lost all the headbands we got for her), and the scarf she wears to bed is almost always on the floor when she wakes up in the morning.  So putting a hat or some other item on her head is no solution at all, but thanks for suggesting it.  What was going on yesterday then, if I'm putting all this effort into her hair?  It's been hard to make time to get new braids, since she's in school four days a week, has doctor's appointments and family visits every week, and, you know, I have three other kids to take care of.  Her hair was loose, and I hadn't had a chance to comb through it that day.  It was looking a little tight and kinky, I guess, maybe it looked too dry?  The ladies never did tell me what exactly was wrong with it, except that I needed to give her an oil treatment (which I do) and have someone put it in braids (which is happening in a few days, on the one morning we are available).  What upsets me most is that all of this was said right in front of my Girl, that she heard every word.  That I have spent the past six months earning her trust and taking care of her, and that was undone in about five minutes.  That we got home and she went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror and asked, "Mommy, can you do my hair?"  Up until that moment, she hadn't paid any attention to her appearance; just that morning, a friend at church smiled at her and told her she was beautiful.

I will always try to avoid the confrontation, especially in front of my children.  And so I didn't answer the charges those women leveled at me.  I didn't pass some of the blame onto Girl's birth mother, who certainly has the opportunity to style and care for her daughter's hair during their visits, because I have a personal conviction to never criticize a child's parent to their face (going back to that trust I'm trying to build with her).  I didn't offer up the figures that prove I do indeed spend money on her care.  And I can't help but wonder if they would have said any of it if my husband were the one pushing the cart.  Why is it that we applaud men just for spending time with their children, but we criticize mothers no matter what they do?

 I wish this wouldn't have happened at all.  I wish those women would have either stayed civil and conversed with me, or just kept walking and minding their own business.  But ultimately, if they think black children in our community are suffering at the hands of their white caregivers, I wish they would head downtown and get licensed to be foster parents themselves.  All they've done is make me angry and make my Girl ashamed of her appearance.  Why not do something positive instead?

Autism Acceptance

Are you sick of these yet?  Do you feel like sending me some new sheet music so I can play something other than this one note?  I feel that way myself sometimes.  Like, just talk about something else, right?  But just when I start to write a blog about how much I love to binge watch shows on Netflix, my fingers take over and the words come out different.  Because there are other times when I think, Why bother to do this at all if you're not going to do something worthwhile?  If I can't use my words, my blog, my hair to tell people how much I love my kids and how much they should love the kids in their lives, then what am I doing?

You've seen the puzzle pieces, you've read the articles, you wore blue!  You are AWARE of autism.  And, with 1 in 68 children in the US being diagnosed with an Autism Spectrum disorder, how could you not be?  Now that we're all here, it's time to collect your belongings and move on, to that door marked "Acceptance".  Don't just know about autism, ACCEPT it.  Understand that the child you see melting down at the store very well might be suffering a sensory overload, or having difficulty processing the transition from the car to the building.  Realize that the person on their iPad is using that amazing technology as a tool...it enables his family to enjoy dinner at a crowded restaurant, it's teaching him to speak and write, it actually engages a child who might otherwise be withdrawn into himself.  Celebrate when your friend tells you that her 10 year old learned to tie his shoes, even though your own kids mastered that skill at age 5, because development doesn't always come in a straight line.

My family is different from yours...except when we aren't.  We love each other fiercely.  We dance in our living room.  We get on each others' nerves and need time alone to recharge.  My 7 year old has terrible tantrums sometimes, and I am constantly trying new ways to reach him, to help him find his calm.  When I ask him questions, I have to wait patiently for an answer.  Sometimes it takes him years to give it.  He is also gentle and kind.  Did you know that my children only fight with each other about once a week?  That most days, they are in a nice groove, and they give to each other and walk away from each other, that they hold hands without being prompted and sneak into each others' beds to cuddle at night?  Did you know that raising an autistic child has taught me an entirely different way to look at the world, and I'm a better person for it?  Did you know that when you accept someone with a neurological difference, that you start accepting all kinds of other folks: people in wheelchairs, people with Down Syndrome, people with addictions and criminal records and even people who liked the series finale of Lost?  Because the definition of "what matters" and "who is worthy of my time" is completely re-written when you can't project the best image of yourself onto your child.  When you have to accept him for him or lose your mind, because he refuses to be something he's not.  And then you'll be free from that conveyor belt you SO DESPERATELY wanted to live on, and you'll realize it's actually pretty nice here, where time moves at a different speed and success looks so different from how you always saw it.

It's okay if you don't like my son.  Really.  If you spend time getting to know him and decide you just don't care that much about Angry Birds or you like big crowds, it's okay to go in another direction.  Because you took the time.  Because you looked at him and saw another person with feelings and interests and a huge heart.  Because you accepted who he is and didn't try to change him.

Happy April friends.  See you here again next year for Autism Acceptance Month.

Lent 4: How Deep the Father's Love

How deep the Father's love for us
How vast beyond all measure
That He should give His only Son
To make a wretch His Treasure

As I spent the past few weeks in preparation for Easter, observing Lent and challenging myself to extend more grace to my children, song lyrics began to fill my mind.  They would come unbidden in quiet moments, they were strong enough to drown out the Frozen soundtrack which has played on repeat since March.  Not the whole song, but sections of it.

How great the pain of searing loss
The Father turns his face away
As wounds which mar the chosen one
Bring many sons to glory

I am not perfect--far from it.  And this is the ultimate point of the Lenten season, to highlight just how far short I fall of the glorious standard.  I can't even go for a week without raising my voice, without snapping at a child's incessant repetition of a song (especially sung incorrectly, grr!), without grabbing a wrist or a shirt just a bit too roughly.  How different I am from the One who died.

Behold the man upon the cross
My sin upon his shoulders
Ashamed, I hear my mocking voice
Call out among the scoffers

I cannot tell you how many times I choked up during prayer, how frequently I opened my mouth and just sighed, because God, I am so unworthy.  Of your love, of this life you have given me, of the people who look at me and think they see you.

It was my sin that held Him there
Until it was accomplished
His dying breath has brought me life
I know that it is finished.

And I remember, in these moments of failure, WHY I believe as I do, WHY I live this way.  I remember that Jesus paid it all, all to HIM I owe.  Because sin had left a crimson stain (and as head laundress for a family of six, I know just how difficult the red stains are), HE washed it white as snow.  I remember how it is that I can wake up each day and start new, how each moment is another chance to get it right.

I will not boast in anything
No gifts no powers no wisdom
But I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

I BELIEVE IN JESUS.  When all else around me disappoints, HE remains.  Eternal, unchanging, full of love and mercy.  When confusion and despair seem to have won, I remember that victory lies at the foot of the cross.

Why should I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom.

Let's stop trying so hard to be perfect.  Let's give up this control we imagine we possess.  Let's stop comparing ourselves to each other.  Let's stop thinking we have the answer.  Let's bow our heads and thank Jesus for being the Lamb of sacrifice, and get on with the business of loving and caring for each other.

Happy Easter.

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.

Lent 3: Meditation

"Look at the proud! They trust in themselves, and their lives are crooked. But the righteous will live by their faithfulness to God." Habakkuk 2:4 NLT
 
We are deep into the Lent season now, with Easter Sunday just two weeks away.  My Lent challenge is going well.  Not perfect, but well.  I find myself praying more, stepping away more, being that calm presence for my kids more.  It's interesting that when I decided not to boil over, it became easier to not even let the pot heat up.  I really challenged myself this past week, attempting to braid Girl's hair by myself instead of taking her to the nice lady who does them beautifully for $20.  You hold still while I practice this new skill...and Jesus save us both.

Jim Gaffigan has a great joke about the arrival of a fourth child; that it's like you're drowning, and then someone throws you a baby.  I thought I was ready to become a mom for the fourth time, but our experience was a little different.  It felt more like being capsized by the arrival of a three year old in respiratory distress who fought us trying to pull her to safety.  Unintentionally, I had assumed that a child who was *lucky* enough to be placed in our loving home would realize the lottery she had won and be so grateful that she immersed herself into our lives.  It was a stupid fantasy, and one that was quickly replaced by reality.  Real life is never quite as pretty as a movie.  Orphans aren't like Annie; they sometimes give all their love to the abusive caretaker and kick the person who reaches out to rescue them.

And so, during my time of meditation and reflection, I listened to a sermon from a church in Texas.  The message revolved around that passage from Habakkuk, about the difference between the proud and the righteous.  The people who seek God ALWAYS live by their faith in Him.  ALWAYS.  That means even when things are going poorly.  Even when life is so backwards or upside down that we think God must not even be aware of how screwed up it all is, that there couldn't possibly be a Master Plan at work, or else it wouldn't be this HARD.  Be faithful anyway.  All I could think of is our Girl, and how different these past few months have been from how I thought it would go.  How I wondered if this was really God's will for our family, for us to parent this child who has disrupted everything.  How each day I resolve to parent her anyway.  To do what is best for her, to care for her, to keep the long-term goals for her that we have in mind when dealing with the other kids.

We were having a bad day last week.  Sometimes this happens, and there's literally NOTHING I can do to make the kids turn it around.  All I can do is control how I respond.  Finally, the day ended (Thank you Lord), and I took Girl upstairs to get ready for bed.  As she pulled her covers up to her chin, I asked if we could pray together.  She nodded.  "Okay, I'll go first sweetie," I said.  I bowed my head and wrapped her little hands in mine, and I prayed.  I was honest.  I was real.  I prayed for myself to be a better mother, for our Girl to have good days when she listened and made the right decisions.  And then I prayed for her mom.  I asked God to Please Please help her get it together, so she could be a mother to her Girl again.  And a little voice whispered in the darkness, "Yes."  "We know you love her just as much as you love us, Lord," I continued.  And again, "Yes."  I don't know when the tears began, but as I said, "Amen," I realized my face was wet and they were falling on her comforter.  It was the most beautiful time of prayer I've experienced...maybe ever.  So is God in this moment, is God aware of what life is like for us right now?  Absolutely.  And he's asking us to be faithful.

Becoming a Family

I've written before about the process of becoming a foster parent.  There were so many thoughts, so many fears, just the months leading up to receiving our license provided enough material to keep this blog going.  So here's another from back then: I worried that becoming foster parents would ruin our family.  I would lay in bed at night and think about this beautiful, amazing, increasingly rare thing we had.  Chris and I did it all in the "traditional" order: we got married, we had a baby a few weeks after our second anniversary, we waited 18 months and then we made another one.  I gave birth to two healthy, beautiful boys, and the four of us were a family.  Chris earned the money, I stayed home with the kids, we all had the same last name and the same skin color and the same love of buttered popcorn and movies on the couch.  When the time to enroll the boys in school came around, we just showed up with a birth certificate and immunization record, filled out some papers, and it was done.  We got to skip over the lengthy sections detailing custody agreements.  We got to travel when we wanted, to make all the decisions affecting our kids.  We made a family from our own DNA, and I thought being in that exclusive club held us together.

We got the call, we brought home a baby, and it was different.  When I held him, when I gave him his bottle (no breastfeeding, which was a bummer), I didn't search his features to find the ones that matched mine.  Between the pediatrician and the caseworker, we made arrangements and implemented their decisions.  We tried to be considerate of the strangers who visited with him each week, the people who bore the titles of Mom and Dad.  We had to get a court order to take him out of state to visit my sister.  And then, one day, he began talking.  His first word was "Dada", and he said it while he was in my husband's arms.  A month later, he called me "Mama".  And I was confused at first, because he called the other woman Mama too.  I thought there could be only one, but he showed me how silly and narrow that was.  At church, we began meeting with other families, and we talked about being a family to others.  The doors of my heart opened to the people coming through the doors of my house.  Michael was just the beginning, as we reached out to his sisters and the relatives taking care of them, the other Second Moms.  And, despite not having a title, a roll-off-the-tongue name to describe how we fit together, I knew we were becoming a family.  My preteen neighbor started coming over, and bringing her friends, and we would stop by her house and spend time with her parents, and another branch was added to our tree.  We got another call, a little girl this time, and she quickly joined the other kids in calling me Mom, and she loves to tell people that she has two Moms, two Dads, two Grandmas and one Nana, and a Grandpa.  And she began to use a word we hadn't taught her to describe our boys; she called them her brothers.

All these people, they taught me that family isn't about looking alike and living in one house together.  Family describes the people we love, the ones who live in our homes and the ones who find a place in our hearts.  Family is who we show up for, it's who we take care of, it pulls us together.  When Michael's First Mom contacted us, when she came back to the land of the living, it was the easiest thing to share a meal with her, to talk to her, to let him sit on her lap.  Of course we want to see her, to help her, to clear off a chair for her to join us.  Because she's family.