When my sweet Amanda first came into my life, she was one sad little customer. She was the most beautiful little girl on earth with these big, clear blue eyes and her sleek little tan. But you never saw those eyes light up like they should, like a little girl who was truly happy. A few years later, during the same summer vacation when she first called me "Mom," Amanda and I played around in the surf while my mom watched from the beach. I don't remember why exactly, but we started trying to do the moves from Riverdance, and kept falling down laughing and getting tangled in our own feet. Later that night, my mom pulled me aside: "Melissa," she said, "That's the first time I ever saw her really smile- I mean, she really just lit up with her smile." And she did. She was even more beautiful than ever after she found her smile.
I grew up in a house where we laughed and played a lot. We especially loved playing practical jokes on each other. One of our favorites was to hide this giant, scary, life-size doll around the house. We all agreed that doll was creepy, but imagine pulling back the shower curtain to find her standing there holding a razor, with that super-scary grin on her face and those black Mary Jane's and blue ruffled dress. We also hid plastic animal feces, rubber rodents, and swapped out shampoo for Ranch dressing. Once my sister Becky fed me a dog treat, pretending it was a gourmet brownie from a specialty store.
The strange part is, I never realized how much I rely on laughter and humor until we brought home three little ones who had lived in five consecutive foster homes, and never really understood the meaning of the word "family." The first week the kids were here, I let them jump on the beds, splash me from the bathtub, sing and shout in the car, taste everything with their fingers, and generally just go wild. It was about 90% unplanned and 10% intentional. I mean, I didn't set out to let them go hog-wild, but getting to know them, learn them, and make them feel comfortable was REALLY hard. It was such a zoo here those first few weeks, but we made it. And one memory of Big C stands out in my mind during those first few weeks. He had just gotten used to calling me "Mommy," and had come to understand that we were serious about taking care of him and his siblings. It was during his bath one night when Porky had come in the bathroom to supervise. I don't know if all Rotties love water, but this one does, and when she saw the boys splashing in the bathtub, she just had to join in. So as the boys splashed, Porky jumped up and tried to bite the water with each splash. The boys were scared at first, not understanding what she was doing, but I explained that she just loves to play with water, and as I laughed, the boys started giggling, and as the giggles turned to big belly laughs, the splashes got bigger, the walls got wetter, and we were all pretty much soaked- including the dog, who was having a blast. After getting out of the bath, Big C was running wild, still overwhelmed with hysterical laughter. I held out his pajama shirt like a bullfighter and called "Toro, Toro! Olay, Olay!" and he ran (head first) into the pajamas. We both fell down with laughter, and he begged me to use the bullfighter voice over and over. When it seemed that the party was getting too wild, I lowered my voice and sat in the recliner while he pulled on his pajama pants. "Okay," I told him, "It's time to settle down. Let's calm down, now. Come sit with me and let's rock" But he was only getting started. Laughter was his new drug, and he was hooked. He took my face in his two hands and got really close to me before he said: "Mommy, laugh! Keep laughing! I love it when you laugh!"
It's a miracle I didn't cry.
How long did I take for granted the security of the happy, healthy, sometimes hysterical family that I grew up in? For how many years did I forget that not all kids are so fortunate? Some kids have never had a mommy or daddy who laugh, who love to laugh, to share stories, jokes, pranks, and silly songs? Many children live with parents too consumed by their own personal issues and problems to giggle and tell jokes with their kids. Some little ones have only heard mom and dad scream, cry, fight, cuss, lie, use profanity, tell vulgar jokes, or speak to one another abusively.
I believe laughter has healing power. The laughter of these little ones in my home and my heart is healing me. They are day by day, systematically healing the wounds and scars that I bear from the heartache of infertility and pregnancy loss. When little C comes running into my arms and says "Tell me the snake secret!" with a huge beautiful smile, I know exactly what to do. I lean over and gather him close to me, put my mouth up to his ear and hiss "Sssssssssssssssssss!" That's the snake's secret! And it works like a charm! We both laugh, and we are both made stronger.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Out of the Blue
Sometimes when you least expect it, something ugly happens and
reminds you of a long-fought, yucky battle that you thought you were
finished fighting. At least that is the way it seems to me. Because even
though I can't carry a child nine months in my womb and experience
pregnancy and childbirth, sometimes the children that are mine through
step-parenting, fostering, adoption, etc. begin to feel like they really
are all mine.
And that's why it is really hard when something slams me in the face and reminds me there is someone else - another mother. She was first. She was crucial. She was the womb. And somehow it always feels like she's got one up on me.
Things were just rolling along rather nicely, and we are moving toward the *hopeful* conclusion of adoption very soon for our three little ones. We have settled into a nice routine and it goes like this:
In the mornings, little C wakes up before most chicken farmers do. He tiptoes into our bedroom and crawls into our bed. He usually plays with my face and my hair, sticks his fingers in our nostrils, or our mouths, while we try to catch just a few more minutes of rest. When he doesn't get the expected result - getting us up- he starts whining about being "thirsty" and "hungry" and then goes into the living room to dump out all the toy bins or turn on the TV really loudly. This wakes the other two little ones, who I will call "Grumpy" and "Chatterbox" for this portion of the narrative. Grumpy slams doors, cries, screams, accuses people of hitting him, and sulks about the house looking for someone to fight with. Chatterbox starts having a loud and lively conversation with herself from her crib, with her baby doll, stuffed panda, or pillow, or whoever is close enough to hear. If no one comes right away, this changes to shouting words like "Dadda! Dadda!! Mommy!!! Mommmamommamommma! Daddaddaddddaadddaddddaaddd!!!!" until one of us (usually John) rescues her from her crib. About this time, the teens start to stir. They are mad because of the noise upstairs (even though after six months we ought to expect it) and they begin their cereal-slinging-lost my shoes-can't find my homework- get out of my way! routine, while one of us (usually John) is slapping down some breakfast for the Little people.
Georgia now drives (be afraid, be VERY afraid) and she takes Mitchell and Samuel to school. The little people ride with me, so while I shower and get ready for work, John changes diapers and dresses three preschoolers. We then gather backpacks of varying superheroes, lunch boxes, homework projects, class snacks, extra diapers, and load everyone into the car. I drop off Lizzie first, then big C for Kindergarten, then little C and I cross the mountain, while he rocks himself from side to side and sings things like "I not a baby, I a big boy!" over and over again until we get to his preschool. I take him inside where he collapses like its the first day all over again and then I hold him for about five minutes until he is comfortable and goes on to play with the other children. I go to work. And recently, I've been working out with my office friends on my lunch hour (another story, but I'm so glad we are doing this now). John cooks, shops, runs cars to the mechanic, cuts grass, and does a myriad of other tasks that I am not sure how we got by with him working before. In the afternoon, I leave the office, pick up all three Little People and return home. John normally has dinner going, and it's a wild evening of dinner, baths, playtime, homework, arguments over the computer, and other normal "family stuff." Around 7:30, I take Lizzie and little C into their room where we rock and sing bedtime songs for about 20 minutes. Then I pray over them each, little C calls this "tell me a secret" time, and they go to bed - sometimes. Then I'm across the hall reading two library books to Big C, tucking him in and the obligatory "back scratch" that started the first night and has continued ever since. When all the "I love you's" and "Good nights" have been said, I hit the garden tub with a mystery novel and John catches up on politics and football. All things considered- we have established quite a routine.
And so it was last week when I came home from work, hot and tired, worn out and hungry. John had brought Lizzie home early and had taken her for a stroll around the neighborhood in the red wagon. She was happy to see me, and just full of joy like always. I picked her up and kissed her and snugged with her for a minute, thumbing through the pile of mail on the kitchen counter. And there it was.
I put Lizzie in her high chair as John was bringing dinner over to the table. I ran into my room, then shoved the letter in my top drawer and returned to the dinner table.
Always observant, Samuel asked, "Melissa, what's wrong? What was that in your hand?" Maybe he saw the blood drain from my face as I sprinted to my bedroom.
"Oh nothing, nothing, " I told our family worry-wart, "It's not important."
"But you look upset . . ." he began, but I cut him off. "It's no big deal Samuel, it's mine, nothing to worry about."
We had dinner. I tried to ask the kids about their day. I tried to focus on getting everyone to ingest a green vegetable, or at least some ketchup (is that a vegetable?) After dinner, we started the bath routine. John was playing lifeguard so I took the letter out and read it. My mind was reeling, but the most obvious question of all was: how did she get our home address?
I grabbed the little laundry baskets marked with the kids names and stormed into their rooms to put their clothes away. John put Georgia on lifeguard duty and followed me.
I was trying to put away clothes but was more or less slamming them into the drawers. John stood there with the same look he gets on his face anytime I go into an emotional rant. The look on his face just says, "Oh God, here it comes." And then I fell apart.
Why? I sobbed, Why, when everything is going so well? Why do I have to get a letter from their birth mom, thanking me for taking care of HER CHILDREN? Why? Why would God allow this? Isn't it enough I can't have children of my own, so why when I wanted them for so long, and worked so hard to get them do I have to SHARE them with ANOTHER MOTHER? Then I spouted off a list of my former pen-pal birth moms who had interfered (From jail) with everything I ever tried to do for "my kids". Everything from insisting I send school work to jail, to suggesting I help mend the broken relationship between the two, to asking me to bring the children to jail to visit, all the way to throwing a complete tantrum in a kindergarten hall over who was the "real" mom at a freaking Mother's Day breakfast when the picture was CLEARLY of me because I have blonde hair NOT BLACK!
How did she get our address? I cried to John, getting louder: This means her WHOLE crazy family has our address! They could come and stalk us outside our windows! They could follow me to work! They could try to kidnap the kids!
Through my entire meltdown, John was his usual calm and assuring self. He put out his hand as if to offer me support, he nodded appropriately and he reminded me to keep my voice down as a few choice words flew out of my mouth. Then I cried like I haven't cried in a long time, grabbed my cell phone, and stormed out the front door to sit on the driveway.
I knew I couldn't let the kids see me that way. And I certainly wasn't going to show them the picture drawn from their mother in JAIL. They don't even know where she is because they never ask about her. They never ask about her because she was so frequently absent in their lives that they don't even notice she has been gone for months. And this is all such a familiar scenario that my mind is growing tired replaying this tape.
I sat out on the driveway and called our caseworker from Families First, who let me cry like a baby and never judged me. She reassured me that I had a right to feel upset, and to feel violated that I was receiving mail from an inmate who posed a threat to my very desperate hopes to be a mother. She listened to me go on and on for over an hour - in the evening, from her home. (This is why we LOVE Families First.) And when the call ended I felt a little better. I sat there for another few minutes on the driveway, until Georgia returned from band rehearsal and nearly ran over me in one swift motion. After I recovered from nearly being driven over, I dusted myself off, put away my phone and went to get my babies and rock them to sleep. I'm glad it was a little later than usual, and it was a little darker outside because they couldn't tell that I was crying as I sang to them, a little song I made up weeks ago:
You are my Rainbow, you are my shining star,
my happy ending, yes you are.
You make my heart smile, for all time,
you are my baby, and you are mine.
And that's why it is really hard when something slams me in the face and reminds me there is someone else - another mother. She was first. She was crucial. She was the womb. And somehow it always feels like she's got one up on me.
Things were just rolling along rather nicely, and we are moving toward the *hopeful* conclusion of adoption very soon for our three little ones. We have settled into a nice routine and it goes like this:
In the mornings, little C wakes up before most chicken farmers do. He tiptoes into our bedroom and crawls into our bed. He usually plays with my face and my hair, sticks his fingers in our nostrils, or our mouths, while we try to catch just a few more minutes of rest. When he doesn't get the expected result - getting us up- he starts whining about being "thirsty" and "hungry" and then goes into the living room to dump out all the toy bins or turn on the TV really loudly. This wakes the other two little ones, who I will call "Grumpy" and "Chatterbox" for this portion of the narrative. Grumpy slams doors, cries, screams, accuses people of hitting him, and sulks about the house looking for someone to fight with. Chatterbox starts having a loud and lively conversation with herself from her crib, with her baby doll, stuffed panda, or pillow, or whoever is close enough to hear. If no one comes right away, this changes to shouting words like "Dadda! Dadda!! Mommy!!! Mommmamommamommma! Daddaddaddddaadddaddddaaddd!!!!" until one of us (usually John) rescues her from her crib. About this time, the teens start to stir. They are mad because of the noise upstairs (even though after six months we ought to expect it) and they begin their cereal-slinging-lost my shoes-can't find my homework- get out of my way! routine, while one of us (usually John) is slapping down some breakfast for the Little people.
Georgia now drives (be afraid, be VERY afraid) and she takes Mitchell and Samuel to school. The little people ride with me, so while I shower and get ready for work, John changes diapers and dresses three preschoolers. We then gather backpacks of varying superheroes, lunch boxes, homework projects, class snacks, extra diapers, and load everyone into the car. I drop off Lizzie first, then big C for Kindergarten, then little C and I cross the mountain, while he rocks himself from side to side and sings things like "I not a baby, I a big boy!" over and over again until we get to his preschool. I take him inside where he collapses like its the first day all over again and then I hold him for about five minutes until he is comfortable and goes on to play with the other children. I go to work. And recently, I've been working out with my office friends on my lunch hour (another story, but I'm so glad we are doing this now). John cooks, shops, runs cars to the mechanic, cuts grass, and does a myriad of other tasks that I am not sure how we got by with him working before. In the afternoon, I leave the office, pick up all three Little People and return home. John normally has dinner going, and it's a wild evening of dinner, baths, playtime, homework, arguments over the computer, and other normal "family stuff." Around 7:30, I take Lizzie and little C into their room where we rock and sing bedtime songs for about 20 minutes. Then I pray over them each, little C calls this "tell me a secret" time, and they go to bed - sometimes. Then I'm across the hall reading two library books to Big C, tucking him in and the obligatory "back scratch" that started the first night and has continued ever since. When all the "I love you's" and "Good nights" have been said, I hit the garden tub with a mystery novel and John catches up on politics and football. All things considered- we have established quite a routine.
And so it was last week when I came home from work, hot and tired, worn out and hungry. John had brought Lizzie home early and had taken her for a stroll around the neighborhood in the red wagon. She was happy to see me, and just full of joy like always. I picked her up and kissed her and snugged with her for a minute, thumbing through the pile of mail on the kitchen counter. And there it was.
I put Lizzie in her high chair as John was bringing dinner over to the table. I ran into my room, then shoved the letter in my top drawer and returned to the dinner table.
Always observant, Samuel asked, "Melissa, what's wrong? What was that in your hand?" Maybe he saw the blood drain from my face as I sprinted to my bedroom.
"Oh nothing, nothing, " I told our family worry-wart, "It's not important."
"But you look upset . . ." he began, but I cut him off. "It's no big deal Samuel, it's mine, nothing to worry about."
We had dinner. I tried to ask the kids about their day. I tried to focus on getting everyone to ingest a green vegetable, or at least some ketchup (is that a vegetable?) After dinner, we started the bath routine. John was playing lifeguard so I took the letter out and read it. My mind was reeling, but the most obvious question of all was: how did she get our home address?
I grabbed the little laundry baskets marked with the kids names and stormed into their rooms to put their clothes away. John put Georgia on lifeguard duty and followed me.
I was trying to put away clothes but was more or less slamming them into the drawers. John stood there with the same look he gets on his face anytime I go into an emotional rant. The look on his face just says, "Oh God, here it comes." And then I fell apart.
Why? I sobbed, Why, when everything is going so well? Why do I have to get a letter from their birth mom, thanking me for taking care of HER CHILDREN? Why? Why would God allow this? Isn't it enough I can't have children of my own, so why when I wanted them for so long, and worked so hard to get them do I have to SHARE them with ANOTHER MOTHER? Then I spouted off a list of my former pen-pal birth moms who had interfered (From jail) with everything I ever tried to do for "my kids". Everything from insisting I send school work to jail, to suggesting I help mend the broken relationship between the two, to asking me to bring the children to jail to visit, all the way to throwing a complete tantrum in a kindergarten hall over who was the "real" mom at a freaking Mother's Day breakfast when the picture was CLEARLY of me because I have blonde hair NOT BLACK!
How did she get our address? I cried to John, getting louder: This means her WHOLE crazy family has our address! They could come and stalk us outside our windows! They could follow me to work! They could try to kidnap the kids!
Through my entire meltdown, John was his usual calm and assuring self. He put out his hand as if to offer me support, he nodded appropriately and he reminded me to keep my voice down as a few choice words flew out of my mouth. Then I cried like I haven't cried in a long time, grabbed my cell phone, and stormed out the front door to sit on the driveway.
I knew I couldn't let the kids see me that way. And I certainly wasn't going to show them the picture drawn from their mother in JAIL. They don't even know where she is because they never ask about her. They never ask about her because she was so frequently absent in their lives that they don't even notice she has been gone for months. And this is all such a familiar scenario that my mind is growing tired replaying this tape.
I sat out on the driveway and called our caseworker from Families First, who let me cry like a baby and never judged me. She reassured me that I had a right to feel upset, and to feel violated that I was receiving mail from an inmate who posed a threat to my very desperate hopes to be a mother. She listened to me go on and on for over an hour - in the evening, from her home. (This is why we LOVE Families First.) And when the call ended I felt a little better. I sat there for another few minutes on the driveway, until Georgia returned from band rehearsal and nearly ran over me in one swift motion. After I recovered from nearly being driven over, I dusted myself off, put away my phone and went to get my babies and rock them to sleep. I'm glad it was a little later than usual, and it was a little darker outside because they couldn't tell that I was crying as I sang to them, a little song I made up weeks ago:
You are my Rainbow, you are my shining star,
my happy ending, yes you are.
You make my heart smile, for all time,
you are my baby, and you are mine.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Big Decisions for Little People
Today we got up an hour earlier than normal. I had a goodie bag packed and spent some extra time on my hair. We had to wake up the little ones, except for Lizzie who heard the commotion in the kitchen while I was putting an ice pack and some cheese sticks into a little Life South cooler. Today was the next step in our journey- a placement hearing, or to some: a judicial review. Today was the day when the juvenile court judge would take a look at where the kids are now, where they have been, and what progress has been made towards a permanent home for them.
You all know that we want to be the permanent home for them. That is why we got involved in this after all. Yes, there was a time when I could parent children and then "give them back," watching them reunite with parents, sometimes with great unknowns ahead. That was mostly during my twenties when I figured I had plenty of time to plan and have my own family- my own children.
About ten years, a broken marriage, an ectopic pregnancy, a new exciting marriage, three stepchildren, another ectopic pregnancy, five reproductive procedures, and a lot of heartache and loss later, I realized that I just couldn't keep "giving them back" to an unknown future. Maybe its the control freak in me, but I wanted my OWN children, to cherish, nurture, love, raise, and enjoy. And I have to honestly say that March 27 was a day that changed my life.
But not long after our new little ones were with us, my mom was here helping me get settled with the "babies" and she uncovered a file of information about their biological family and the facts of the case. She found this in a black nylon backpack with old chewing gum stuck in the top velcro. She read through it that evening and gave me the Cliff's notes version over coffee the next morning while I rushed around trying to keep up with a girl who eats dog food, and two boys who were constantly banging into walls and pulling down the curtains in my living room. I didn't give much time to the matters of that black nylon bag, I assumed these children had been placed with us because there was no hope of them going back to their natural parents. Over the next few days and through a series of phone calls and emails with important people, we learned that our case was far from neat and simple. Our case was in fact the very thing I hate the most: headed straight into the great unknown.
I have poured my heart out through this blog many times, so this will not be new information: I have a very intense, daily, unrelenting struggle with letting go. Back in my active al-anon days, I recited the phrase over and over: Let go and Let God. Someone I worked with had a refrigerator magnet with the phrase written in delicate cursive: Let go and Let God. It sounds good, doesn't it?
But when the visits with birth family started, and the kids were bounced back and forth across three counties to visit with people they didn't have a bond or connection to, it was hard for me to "let go." Even the transfer of the three car seats into the waiting vehicle of the transporter was painful. I planned my daily schedule around the visits so I would be occupied while the kids were not in my care. It absolutely infuriated me that "my kids" were at McDonalds or the outlet mall with someone else, possibly calling them "Mom" or "Dad", all the while I was gnawing my fingernails in a failed attempt to let go.
One night I was rocking Lizzie, smelling her hair, gently rubbing her back through her pink pajamas. She had her head on my shoulder and was almost asleep.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . . you make me happy when skies are gray. You never know dear, how much I love you . . ." And like a prayer from my heart to God's, I sang the last words, "Please don't take my sunshine away."
This is all in His hand, His control. I have no control here and that is sometimes frightening, when it should be refreshing and comforting.
I love them so much.
Dear God, please don't take my sunshine away.
This has been my daily prayer to God. As selfish as it may seem, or as naive, or as childish as it may seem, I find myself daily begging God, please . . . please . . . please God. Please don't take my sunshine away.
They have become my sunshine in a way that I cannot put into words. . .
I never thought I could take care of a baby girl because I'm terrible at styling hair. One day last week I realized that I can style Lizzie's hair. I can style her hair because, unlike my playmates growing up, or even my cornsilk cabbage patch kid dolls with their shiny perfect hair, I know everything about Lizzie's head. I have memorized her scalp, the way her hair parts from the back, slightly to the left, behind her eye, and how it grows forward like thick bangs around her sweet forehead. I have memorized her hairline, just like I have memorized the freckles and tiny scars on big C's legs, the birthmark on his forehead and the small of his back, and like I have memorized the sound of little C's footsteps and the pounding of his heartbeat as it thumps against my own, or the sparkle in his eyes: the way I can look into his face and tell if he is anxious or worried.
Which brings me back to my original reason for this story: Little C- the middle child. He carries his anxiety and nervousness in his belly. He came to us with chronic headaches, diarrhea, and weight loss. His weight had dropped from 32 to 29 to 28 and his 2T clothes hung off his body. We persisted in having him evaluated by specialists. They ran some tests, they ordered some blood-work, I - not they - collected a lot of very unpleasant samples. Most all the specialists agreed: these physical symptoms are a manifestation of the chaos and commotion in this little boys' life. After months of these symptoms (the records indicate the diarrhea started in January of this year) little C's symptoms began to fade away. We took great strides with his diet and gave him probiotics, and plenty of attention, but I know that's not the reason little C's tummy troubles got better. At his last physical he was up to 34 pounds when he was down to 28 in April. The photos of his first day with us stand in contrast to the ones we have of this week. He is a glowing, happy, healthy preschooler. And everyone in court today agreed- he looks like a different child.
So it makes me very sad to say that as we walked up to the courthouse steps, little C was holding hands with his CASA worker and said: "Where is Daddy?" His CASA worker pointed to John and said "he's right there," to which little C replied, "where is the other daddy?" And it occurred to me that in four months little C has never asked about the other daddy. But arriving at the courthouse with its intimidating metal detectors, the proud flags waving in the sky overhead, and the endless stream of adults rushing in and out, he was reminded of the daddy from before. The daddy he only saw in this courthouse. The daddy who made promises he couldn't keep- the daddy who kept showing up in shackles and handcuffs.
We were greeted at the elevator by an armed deputy who escorted us to a private play area. It was just John and me, and our three babies. Several important court people came into the room one or two at a time to chat with us, and once or twice they asked me to step out in order to keep the kids from knowing what was happening. After about thirty minutes, little C began to fuss and act up. "I need to go poopie!" he cried, and I rushed him off to the men's room. In the bathroom I realized his stomach was upset. John took him the next two times to the bathroom to "go poopie." The longer we stayed at the courthouse, the more out of character little C became. He was nervous, loud, whiny and demanding. Lizzie didn't much know what was happening. Big C was strangely calm. But little C, my poor little guy- he was just a wreck all morning.
It was a relief when all the big decisions were made for today. The judge had read my report, and the recommendations from CASA and DFACS. The attorneys announced their plans to file for termination of parental rights. My head was spinning and my own guts felt twisted each time the door of that playroom opened and someone else came in to inform me of what was going on. The birth family requested to see the kids today and the decision was made not to allow that. We were relieved. And by 11:20. another armed deputy arrived outside the playroom to escort us out of the building. We stopped for some lunch when we got out of town, and about twenty minutes later, with his tummy full of lunch, little C fell asleep in his car seat. One minute he was looking out the window, maybe watching some fuzzy memories or faintly familiar places roll past the car, and the next minute he was peacefully resting, safe and sound.
Thank you, God for today, for big decisions and for little ones. Dear God, please don't take my sunshine away.
You all know that we want to be the permanent home for them. That is why we got involved in this after all. Yes, there was a time when I could parent children and then "give them back," watching them reunite with parents, sometimes with great unknowns ahead. That was mostly during my twenties when I figured I had plenty of time to plan and have my own family- my own children.
About ten years, a broken marriage, an ectopic pregnancy, a new exciting marriage, three stepchildren, another ectopic pregnancy, five reproductive procedures, and a lot of heartache and loss later, I realized that I just couldn't keep "giving them back" to an unknown future. Maybe its the control freak in me, but I wanted my OWN children, to cherish, nurture, love, raise, and enjoy. And I have to honestly say that March 27 was a day that changed my life.
But not long after our new little ones were with us, my mom was here helping me get settled with the "babies" and she uncovered a file of information about their biological family and the facts of the case. She found this in a black nylon backpack with old chewing gum stuck in the top velcro. She read through it that evening and gave me the Cliff's notes version over coffee the next morning while I rushed around trying to keep up with a girl who eats dog food, and two boys who were constantly banging into walls and pulling down the curtains in my living room. I didn't give much time to the matters of that black nylon bag, I assumed these children had been placed with us because there was no hope of them going back to their natural parents. Over the next few days and through a series of phone calls and emails with important people, we learned that our case was far from neat and simple. Our case was in fact the very thing I hate the most: headed straight into the great unknown.
I have poured my heart out through this blog many times, so this will not be new information: I have a very intense, daily, unrelenting struggle with letting go. Back in my active al-anon days, I recited the phrase over and over: Let go and Let God. Someone I worked with had a refrigerator magnet with the phrase written in delicate cursive: Let go and Let God. It sounds good, doesn't it?
But when the visits with birth family started, and the kids were bounced back and forth across three counties to visit with people they didn't have a bond or connection to, it was hard for me to "let go." Even the transfer of the three car seats into the waiting vehicle of the transporter was painful. I planned my daily schedule around the visits so I would be occupied while the kids were not in my care. It absolutely infuriated me that "my kids" were at McDonalds or the outlet mall with someone else, possibly calling them "Mom" or "Dad", all the while I was gnawing my fingernails in a failed attempt to let go.
One night I was rocking Lizzie, smelling her hair, gently rubbing her back through her pink pajamas. She had her head on my shoulder and was almost asleep.
"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine . . . you make me happy when skies are gray. You never know dear, how much I love you . . ." And like a prayer from my heart to God's, I sang the last words, "Please don't take my sunshine away."
This is all in His hand, His control. I have no control here and that is sometimes frightening, when it should be refreshing and comforting.
I love them so much.
Dear God, please don't take my sunshine away.
This has been my daily prayer to God. As selfish as it may seem, or as naive, or as childish as it may seem, I find myself daily begging God, please . . . please . . . please God. Please don't take my sunshine away.
They have become my sunshine in a way that I cannot put into words. . .
I never thought I could take care of a baby girl because I'm terrible at styling hair. One day last week I realized that I can style Lizzie's hair. I can style her hair because, unlike my playmates growing up, or even my cornsilk cabbage patch kid dolls with their shiny perfect hair, I know everything about Lizzie's head. I have memorized her scalp, the way her hair parts from the back, slightly to the left, behind her eye, and how it grows forward like thick bangs around her sweet forehead. I have memorized her hairline, just like I have memorized the freckles and tiny scars on big C's legs, the birthmark on his forehead and the small of his back, and like I have memorized the sound of little C's footsteps and the pounding of his heartbeat as it thumps against my own, or the sparkle in his eyes: the way I can look into his face and tell if he is anxious or worried.
Which brings me back to my original reason for this story: Little C- the middle child. He carries his anxiety and nervousness in his belly. He came to us with chronic headaches, diarrhea, and weight loss. His weight had dropped from 32 to 29 to 28 and his 2T clothes hung off his body. We persisted in having him evaluated by specialists. They ran some tests, they ordered some blood-work, I - not they - collected a lot of very unpleasant samples. Most all the specialists agreed: these physical symptoms are a manifestation of the chaos and commotion in this little boys' life. After months of these symptoms (the records indicate the diarrhea started in January of this year) little C's symptoms began to fade away. We took great strides with his diet and gave him probiotics, and plenty of attention, but I know that's not the reason little C's tummy troubles got better. At his last physical he was up to 34 pounds when he was down to 28 in April. The photos of his first day with us stand in contrast to the ones we have of this week. He is a glowing, happy, healthy preschooler. And everyone in court today agreed- he looks like a different child.
So it makes me very sad to say that as we walked up to the courthouse steps, little C was holding hands with his CASA worker and said: "Where is Daddy?" His CASA worker pointed to John and said "he's right there," to which little C replied, "where is the other daddy?" And it occurred to me that in four months little C has never asked about the other daddy. But arriving at the courthouse with its intimidating metal detectors, the proud flags waving in the sky overhead, and the endless stream of adults rushing in and out, he was reminded of the daddy from before. The daddy he only saw in this courthouse. The daddy who made promises he couldn't keep- the daddy who kept showing up in shackles and handcuffs.
We were greeted at the elevator by an armed deputy who escorted us to a private play area. It was just John and me, and our three babies. Several important court people came into the room one or two at a time to chat with us, and once or twice they asked me to step out in order to keep the kids from knowing what was happening. After about thirty minutes, little C began to fuss and act up. "I need to go poopie!" he cried, and I rushed him off to the men's room. In the bathroom I realized his stomach was upset. John took him the next two times to the bathroom to "go poopie." The longer we stayed at the courthouse, the more out of character little C became. He was nervous, loud, whiny and demanding. Lizzie didn't much know what was happening. Big C was strangely calm. But little C, my poor little guy- he was just a wreck all morning.
It was a relief when all the big decisions were made for today. The judge had read my report, and the recommendations from CASA and DFACS. The attorneys announced their plans to file for termination of parental rights. My head was spinning and my own guts felt twisted each time the door of that playroom opened and someone else came in to inform me of what was going on. The birth family requested to see the kids today and the decision was made not to allow that. We were relieved. And by 11:20. another armed deputy arrived outside the playroom to escort us out of the building. We stopped for some lunch when we got out of town, and about twenty minutes later, with his tummy full of lunch, little C fell asleep in his car seat. One minute he was looking out the window, maybe watching some fuzzy memories or faintly familiar places roll past the car, and the next minute he was peacefully resting, safe and sound.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
An open letter to APOLOGIZE to all mothers of preschoolers
To all mothers of preschoolers, I must apologize. Yours is a world I did not understand . . . and yet, now I do.
Yes, it's funny how our perspective changes as our life experiences grow and expand. For me, I was constantly looking down at many women out there. Like the women pushing a cart through wal-mart wearing wrinkled t-shirts, sometimes with no bra, sometimes with bedroom slippers on, a glazed-over look in their eyes. I turned up my nose at you moms with screaming toddlers. You know who you are: the kid is screeching and clawing at you and you just thumb through a People magazine and pretend it isn't happening.
Up until about 3 and a half months ago, I never left the house without makeup, unless I was running a very high fever, or recovering from surgery. Even then, it might be to the convenience store for a bottle of ginger-ale, but God Forbid- never to a public place like Wal-Mart! And yet, something about adding 3 children under age 5 into our household, two in diapers, all with very serious issues of trust, grief and trauma, has turned me into a mommy-zombie.
I feel like I've been walking around in a sleep-deprived stupor for about 100 days. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, a voice says "were almost out of diapers . . ." and somehow I make it around the mountain in my car, never hearing the songs on the radio, I step out of the car never noticing that I am wearing a shirt with a huge stain on the front, and two holes in the armpit . . . with shorts that haven't really fit me since my junior year of college. I find a cart . . . I roll forward with the cart because it is holding up my entire upper body . . . I step into the nauseating florescent light and putt around in wal-mart like a . . . zombie.
My legs are hairy . . . my breath smells bad . . . there is only one underwire left in my bra.
Forgive me, ladies. I just didn't understand.
I used to snicker at those of you with two-inch roots. Make a hair-appointment, I thought.
I rolled my eyes at moms who brought their children into public wearing nothing but a diaper. Laziness, I thought. Okay, I get it now.
Whatever I thought before, whatever I believed before, whatever I wondered before has all come full circle, and the criticism that surrounded me like a snuggie has now vanished in the florescent light of Wal-Mart where I'm standing on the pet food aisle trying to remember why I came here in the first place.
So to all you moms who give in and let her have the sour gummie worms thirty minutes before dinner: I get it now.
All you moms who cut your hair as short as an army ranger because you just don't have time to style it anymore: I get it now.
To all you who arrive for a meeting at work in navy slacks and black dress shoes because you got ready in the dark so as not to wake the baby: I get it now.
Those of you who take a piece of chewed gum out of your own mouth and give it to a screaming kid because it's just not worth the fight anymore: I get it now.
And those of you with chipped nail polish and toenails long enough to slice cucumbers: I do get it now. And I'm sorry I judged you.
I get it now.
Yes, it's funny how our perspective changes as our life experiences grow and expand. For me, I was constantly looking down at many women out there. Like the women pushing a cart through wal-mart wearing wrinkled t-shirts, sometimes with no bra, sometimes with bedroom slippers on, a glazed-over look in their eyes. I turned up my nose at you moms with screaming toddlers. You know who you are: the kid is screeching and clawing at you and you just thumb through a People magazine and pretend it isn't happening.
Up until about 3 and a half months ago, I never left the house without makeup, unless I was running a very high fever, or recovering from surgery. Even then, it might be to the convenience store for a bottle of ginger-ale, but God Forbid- never to a public place like Wal-Mart! And yet, something about adding 3 children under age 5 into our household, two in diapers, all with very serious issues of trust, grief and trauma, has turned me into a mommy-zombie.
I feel like I've been walking around in a sleep-deprived stupor for about 100 days. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, a voice says "were almost out of diapers . . ." and somehow I make it around the mountain in my car, never hearing the songs on the radio, I step out of the car never noticing that I am wearing a shirt with a huge stain on the front, and two holes in the armpit . . . with shorts that haven't really fit me since my junior year of college. I find a cart . . . I roll forward with the cart because it is holding up my entire upper body . . . I step into the nauseating florescent light and putt around in wal-mart like a . . . zombie.
My legs are hairy . . . my breath smells bad . . . there is only one underwire left in my bra.
Forgive me, ladies. I just didn't understand.
I used to snicker at those of you with two-inch roots. Make a hair-appointment, I thought.
I rolled my eyes at moms who brought their children into public wearing nothing but a diaper. Laziness, I thought. Okay, I get it now.
Whatever I thought before, whatever I believed before, whatever I wondered before has all come full circle, and the criticism that surrounded me like a snuggie has now vanished in the florescent light of Wal-Mart where I'm standing on the pet food aisle trying to remember why I came here in the first place.
So to all you moms who give in and let her have the sour gummie worms thirty minutes before dinner: I get it now.
All you moms who cut your hair as short as an army ranger because you just don't have time to style it anymore: I get it now.
To all you who arrive for a meeting at work in navy slacks and black dress shoes because you got ready in the dark so as not to wake the baby: I get it now.
Those of you who take a piece of chewed gum out of your own mouth and give it to a screaming kid because it's just not worth the fight anymore: I get it now.
And those of you with chipped nail polish and toenails long enough to slice cucumbers: I do get it now. And I'm sorry I judged you.
I get it now.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Along the Winding Valley
John and I kid around a lot about the oldest of our three new children. We should probably stop, but in the beginning, we joked around as a form of therapy for ourselves. "Big C" as I call him in this blog, is a difficult child. Oh, he is a beautiful little boy. All three of our little angels are beautiful. "Little C" has a grin that will have the girls swooning one day. And our little girl has golden hair and little gold flecks in her eyelashes. And Big C is just adorable too. He has those big brown eyes and mischievous grin. He's handsome, and smart and coordinated for a five year old. But he is far from the easiest child I have ever parented.
The kidding around between me and my husband is normally something like this:
Me: "I'm going to the store to get milk, eggs, etc. Do you want me to take one of the little ones with me?
John: It doesn't matter, I can watch them all - or if you want to, you can take Big C . . ."
(Insert sarcastic laughter)
Occasionally, we have a little disagreement over who will handle his antics. It goes like this:
Me: It's your turn, dude. I've had enough of the master of disaster.
John: Seriously? I changed two exploding diapers just now on the other two.
Although it doesn't always go like this, you get the picture. It's not easy. We knew this whole "arrangement" would not be easy. But all the classes we took, books we read, stories we heard, and conversations we had- nothing could have prepared us for these specific children and their needs, experiences, and trauma.
And being that Big C is the oldest, he remembers the most. He holds onto the most.
After he went to therapy this past week, he started recalling stories of his parents, who he referred to by their first names. He knew the names of the towns he lived in, who he lived with, and where Little C lived, and all the other details. He knew unbelievable details. It was so sad.
And as frustrating as this child can be, sometimes I am overwhelmed with grief for what he has lost and what life has done to him. He has a hard time with trust. The first time his caseworker came to visit us, he was terrified that she was going to take him to live somewhere else. The first time I took him to daycare, he clung to me, afraid I would leave him. And at therapy, before he will go in the room and play in the sand or with the other toys, he turns and asks: "Will you be right outside the door the whole time?"
I don't know what heavy burdens he has carried but I know he has had a hard time just being a child. He spent the first five or six weeks in our home telling us how to change the baby's diaper, how to discipline his brother, how to cut the food for them, how to hold the baby, and all manner of things most five year olds never bother to be concerned about.
Recently I decided to look up the children's names and read about their meanings. I have this big fascination with names and what they mean. If I had ever been able to have my own babies, it would have been a big process to choose their names. As it is, I put great time and thought into naming my two babies in Heaven - Jacob and Abigail. So, not being able to choose your children's names is hard, but I wanted to know their names all the same.
I flipped through a book of baby names and read the meanings. Everything was pretty straightforward, nothing spectacular. But I did pause when I got to the meaning of Big C's name.
It means "winding valley."
Another translation claims that his name means "bent or crooked."
Could there be a better name for this child?
It breaks my heart, but his name fits him well. We watch him struggle, make unwise choices, use profanity (at five years old!) and learn the hard way. We watch him battle moment by moment with simple rules and structure that is designed to guide and protect him. He has been in this winding valley all of his life. He has struggled on path that is bent and crooked. His life has been less than ideal.
So it was that today I did go to the grocery store to pick up milk, juice, bread, etc. You know, the basics. And I was tempted to just take the baby. She is so easy and sweet and people stop by the cart to gush: "Oh! She looks just like you!" And I smile and feel so happy. Or I could have taken my handsome Little C, who sits happily in the cart and is just glad to be there. But when Big C heard I was going to the store, he slipped into the narrow space between my body and the kitchen counter and reached for my hands. "Can I go with you Mommy?"
Flashback of the last two times he accompanied me to the grocery store: Screaming, kicking, clawing me, slamming the grocery cart into my heels (ouch!) grabbing at helium balloons and knocking down a display of Little Debbie cakes . . .
John looked hopeful . . . the baby was content . . . Little C was about to take a nap.
"Okay, buddy. You can come with me."
And the little Winding Valley happily trotted out the door with me.
In the parking lot, I laid down the ground rules. You may have one (1) treat, if and only if you stay with me, do not ask for anything, and do not attempt to push the grocery cart. Do not argue with me, do not talk to strangers, and do not run in the grocery store.
He agreed to my rules.
We shopped for about thirty very uneventful minutes. We spent even longer with the cashier due to an issue with my kool-aid coupon. As we checked out, I told Big C he could choose his one (1) treat. He chose a cheese danish, of all things.
While I paid, the charming child walked over to some 25 cent-candy machines but HE DID NOT ASK FOR A SINGLE THING.
We walked to the car, loaded the groceries into the back and he climbed into his booster car-seat. I buckled him in and he asked if he could eat the danish in the car. I said yes and got into my seat, started the AC and began backing out of the parking space. While I was turned around looking out the back windshield, his eyes locked with mine. Between bites of danish, he smiled and said: "Thank you, mommy."
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror. I was overcome at the sight of him: sweet, innocent, pure, lovable, precious, full of life, and full of energy. He looked so safe and so "at home."
"I love you, buddy." I said.
And I meant it.
I do love him.
We didn't sign up for easy street. We signed up for the winding valley. And I am happy to be moving forward, one step at a time.
The kidding around between me and my husband is normally something like this:
Me: "I'm going to the store to get milk, eggs, etc. Do you want me to take one of the little ones with me?
John: It doesn't matter, I can watch them all - or if you want to, you can take Big C . . ."
(Insert sarcastic laughter)
Occasionally, we have a little disagreement over who will handle his antics. It goes like this:
Me: It's your turn, dude. I've had enough of the master of disaster.
John: Seriously? I changed two exploding diapers just now on the other two.
Although it doesn't always go like this, you get the picture. It's not easy. We knew this whole "arrangement" would not be easy. But all the classes we took, books we read, stories we heard, and conversations we had- nothing could have prepared us for these specific children and their needs, experiences, and trauma.
And being that Big C is the oldest, he remembers the most. He holds onto the most.
After he went to therapy this past week, he started recalling stories of his parents, who he referred to by their first names. He knew the names of the towns he lived in, who he lived with, and where Little C lived, and all the other details. He knew unbelievable details. It was so sad.
And as frustrating as this child can be, sometimes I am overwhelmed with grief for what he has lost and what life has done to him. He has a hard time with trust. The first time his caseworker came to visit us, he was terrified that she was going to take him to live somewhere else. The first time I took him to daycare, he clung to me, afraid I would leave him. And at therapy, before he will go in the room and play in the sand or with the other toys, he turns and asks: "Will you be right outside the door the whole time?"
I don't know what heavy burdens he has carried but I know he has had a hard time just being a child. He spent the first five or six weeks in our home telling us how to change the baby's diaper, how to discipline his brother, how to cut the food for them, how to hold the baby, and all manner of things most five year olds never bother to be concerned about.
Recently I decided to look up the children's names and read about their meanings. I have this big fascination with names and what they mean. If I had ever been able to have my own babies, it would have been a big process to choose their names. As it is, I put great time and thought into naming my two babies in Heaven - Jacob and Abigail. So, not being able to choose your children's names is hard, but I wanted to know their names all the same.
I flipped through a book of baby names and read the meanings. Everything was pretty straightforward, nothing spectacular. But I did pause when I got to the meaning of Big C's name.
It means "winding valley."
Another translation claims that his name means "bent or crooked."
Could there be a better name for this child?
It breaks my heart, but his name fits him well. We watch him struggle, make unwise choices, use profanity (at five years old!) and learn the hard way. We watch him battle moment by moment with simple rules and structure that is designed to guide and protect him. He has been in this winding valley all of his life. He has struggled on path that is bent and crooked. His life has been less than ideal.
So it was that today I did go to the grocery store to pick up milk, juice, bread, etc. You know, the basics. And I was tempted to just take the baby. She is so easy and sweet and people stop by the cart to gush: "Oh! She looks just like you!" And I smile and feel so happy. Or I could have taken my handsome Little C, who sits happily in the cart and is just glad to be there. But when Big C heard I was going to the store, he slipped into the narrow space between my body and the kitchen counter and reached for my hands. "Can I go with you Mommy?"
Flashback of the last two times he accompanied me to the grocery store: Screaming, kicking, clawing me, slamming the grocery cart into my heels (ouch!) grabbing at helium balloons and knocking down a display of Little Debbie cakes . . .
John looked hopeful . . . the baby was content . . . Little C was about to take a nap.
"Okay, buddy. You can come with me."
And the little Winding Valley happily trotted out the door with me.
In the parking lot, I laid down the ground rules. You may have one (1) treat, if and only if you stay with me, do not ask for anything, and do not attempt to push the grocery cart. Do not argue with me, do not talk to strangers, and do not run in the grocery store.
He agreed to my rules.
We shopped for about thirty very uneventful minutes. We spent even longer with the cashier due to an issue with my kool-aid coupon. As we checked out, I told Big C he could choose his one (1) treat. He chose a cheese danish, of all things.
While I paid, the charming child walked over to some 25 cent-candy machines but HE DID NOT ASK FOR A SINGLE THING.
We walked to the car, loaded the groceries into the back and he climbed into his booster car-seat. I buckled him in and he asked if he could eat the danish in the car. I said yes and got into my seat, started the AC and began backing out of the parking space. While I was turned around looking out the back windshield, his eyes locked with mine. Between bites of danish, he smiled and said: "Thank you, mommy."
As we pulled out of the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of him in the rear view mirror. I was overcome at the sight of him: sweet, innocent, pure, lovable, precious, full of life, and full of energy. He looked so safe and so "at home."
"I love you, buddy." I said.
And I meant it.
I do love him.
We didn't sign up for easy street. We signed up for the winding valley. And I am happy to be moving forward, one step at a time.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
Rollin' with the Changes
We knew this was coming but it still hit us out of the blue. John went to work on Friday with his customary brown-bag lunch and Steelers mug of coffee and was soon greeted by his supervisor- the district manager- coming to deliver some news. I'm not going to call this "bad news," in fact, I refuse to call it anything other than "news" because we just don't know what God has in store for us next. John has been working for Wolf as a manager for over twelve years. He has been with Wolf far longer than he's been with me, and he has done well there. But sadly, the economy has hurt this business and his store, along with many others, is closed. Originally, he was told that there would be about 3-6 weeks until the store was officially "closed." That changed yesterday when John was told to put a sign on the door and start boxing up the merchandise. Done. Over. Adios. The End. John called his "guys" - the faithful work associates who have kept him company for years, and passed along the "news." And here we go again.
In October, I left a job of fourteen years. A comfortable, easy, pleasant job that I had done for so long I could do it with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back. I left because God said "it's time to go, I'm done with you here," and he lead me to work right here in my community with a struggling non-profit that truthfully couldn't afford to hire me. But God opened that door, and I am overwhelmingly grateful because not five months later we received the wonderful news that our family was about to grow in a very special way. Bringing C, C and E into our home has changed our life dramatically. In fact, it was such a massive change for us that John took 6 weeks of paid FMLA time to stay home with me and help get the children into a routine with our family and community. We went from being a family of 6 to a family of 9 and I have loved every minute of it (except for the uncertainty about the future . . . but let's not go into that right now.) I am tempted to be a little nervous right now, but actually I'm kind of excited. I'm excited to see what God has in store for us. John has been faithful to a job that hasn't always been easy. He has been a hard-working and faithful provider for our family, and I believe God will honor that faithfulness. John has sacrificed his Saturdays and some Sundays for years, and many holidays. He has worked long hours, put up with ornery customers, and spent far too much time wearing a black polo and khakis. And now God has something else for him- and for us.
My mother in law called tonight to ask how John was doing. He is her baby, after all. I should also interject that I adore my mother in law. She is adorable, funny, clever, creative, warm, and witty. She is someone I admire and enjoy. Her humor is always laced with sarcasm (like me), and she is thoughtful like no one I have ever known. She never forgets a birthday, she never lets a holiday pass without sending a card to each of the children. And she faithfully calls us every Sunday just to check on things. Tonight's phone call was focused on John, and of course, the children. And I felt really encouraged after talking to her. She believes like I do, that something great is just around the corner.
Our life seems to be full of changes. Yes I know, everyone feels that way. But when I think about the changes that have happened in this house over the past year, I can honestly say that these changes have been for our good. Isn't that what scripture promises us? That in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 Sometimes I am still blown away that God chose me and called me according to his purpose. But I am grateful for this perspective. I am grateful that as we roll through life and face these changes, we can know that God still holds us in His hand. Nothing takes Him by surprise.
Now if all of you will just keep reminding me of this!
In October, I left a job of fourteen years. A comfortable, easy, pleasant job that I had done for so long I could do it with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back. I left because God said "it's time to go, I'm done with you here," and he lead me to work right here in my community with a struggling non-profit that truthfully couldn't afford to hire me. But God opened that door, and I am overwhelmingly grateful because not five months later we received the wonderful news that our family was about to grow in a very special way. Bringing C, C and E into our home has changed our life dramatically. In fact, it was such a massive change for us that John took 6 weeks of paid FMLA time to stay home with me and help get the children into a routine with our family and community. We went from being a family of 6 to a family of 9 and I have loved every minute of it (except for the uncertainty about the future . . . but let's not go into that right now.) I am tempted to be a little nervous right now, but actually I'm kind of excited. I'm excited to see what God has in store for us. John has been faithful to a job that hasn't always been easy. He has been a hard-working and faithful provider for our family, and I believe God will honor that faithfulness. John has sacrificed his Saturdays and some Sundays for years, and many holidays. He has worked long hours, put up with ornery customers, and spent far too much time wearing a black polo and khakis. And now God has something else for him- and for us.
My mother in law called tonight to ask how John was doing. He is her baby, after all. I should also interject that I adore my mother in law. She is adorable, funny, clever, creative, warm, and witty. She is someone I admire and enjoy. Her humor is always laced with sarcasm (like me), and she is thoughtful like no one I have ever known. She never forgets a birthday, she never lets a holiday pass without sending a card to each of the children. And she faithfully calls us every Sunday just to check on things. Tonight's phone call was focused on John, and of course, the children. And I felt really encouraged after talking to her. She believes like I do, that something great is just around the corner.
Our life seems to be full of changes. Yes I know, everyone feels that way. But when I think about the changes that have happened in this house over the past year, I can honestly say that these changes have been for our good. Isn't that what scripture promises us? That in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. Romans 8:28 Sometimes I am still blown away that God chose me and called me according to his purpose. But I am grateful for this perspective. I am grateful that as we roll through life and face these changes, we can know that God still holds us in His hand. Nothing takes Him by surprise.
Now if all of you will just keep reminding me of this!
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Emotionally Crippled Mommy
I had one of those weekends where all I could think about was "what if?" What if we lose them, what if we have them for another year and THEN we lose them? What if we have them forever and they grow up to resent us and turn into delinquents?
I can't say what causes me to have these fears and feelings of gloom. I can say, being brutally honest, that sometimes facebook is really hard for me. It seems like page after page of newborn babies, pregnancy posts, happy pictures from the delivery room. And in spite of these beautiful children that live in my home, and my wonderful compassionate husband, I still struggle with bitterness, sadness, longing, and loneliness. Yes, loneliness. Infertility makes you feel like you are alone in a sea of happy fertile people who were blessed to be able to plan their families, and see the natural fruit of their wombs. Infertility makes you feel left out. It's like being the only kid not picked for a team in kickball, or not being asked to a school dance when all your friends are going.
This weekend I was seriously bummed out. Just watching the kids play made me sad. I couldn't enjoy them because all I could think about was how broken and imperfect this world is - and how broken and imperfect I am. I thought about their circumstances, and how they came to us- and I thought about what I used to imagine as my future. You know- a good old, pity party.
And at the height of my brokenness and self-loathing, the boys asked for a bedtime story. I reached into the big basket and pulled out three board books. "Pick one," I offered, already too distracted by my pitiful nonsense to pay much attention to the titles. John noticed one of the three books was Max Lucado's book, The Crippled Lamb. He muttered something about that sounding like a really depressing children's book. I didn't remember the whole story. I knew it was something about a lamb that was there during the nativity. In a fleeting moment, I thought about putting that one back. It might be easier to stick with Little Monster or the Berenstein Bears than deal with the complicated theology of barnyard animals as spiritual beings.
The boys followed me into the bedroom and naturally they picked "the lamb one." I opened the book and started to read, telling myself not to get emotionally dragged into the story. Max Lucado is great - but sometimes a little heavy for a Sunday night. Big C was sitting on my lap while Little C wandered in and out of the closet, talking to himself and counting his fingers. I managed to get through the first part, about how poor little Joshua (the crippled lamb) always felt left out because he had a bad leg and the other lambs were mean to him. I remembered parts of the story as I read (it's easily been eight years since I read this one) about Abigail the nice old cow who encouraged Joshua that "God has a special place for those who feel left out." Why did that stupid dreamy-eyed cow have to say that? I got choked up on page two. Big C was sitting in my lap and he pointed to the drawing of the cow. "Is that his new mommy?" He asked. I sniffed. "Yes, she's . . . well, she's like his foster . . . foster mom." And then I really fell apart. Joshua the lamb was not able to go into the fields with the other lambs because he was crippled. He was different. He was broken. And my heart was just broken. I cried big, crocodile tears, desperately trying to pull myself together. But who was I crying for? The fictional lamb with a disability? For the next few pages, Joshua watches the birth of Christ unfold in the stable where he was left behind with Abigail the cow. When the baby Jesus is cold, Joshua curls up beside him to keep him warm and he stops crying. And then Joshua is reminded of Abigail's words: God does have a special place for those who feel left out.
As I wept my way through this children's book, Big C looked at me with complete astonishment. "You really ARE crying!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I am," I replied. Little C had stopped digging in his diaper long enough to notice my emotional breakdown.
"What's wrong with you?" Big C asked, "It's just a story. Besides it's all okay now, see, he's not sad anymore."
He was right. Joshua, the crippled lamb, made peace with his disability and his loss. He accepted God's purpose for his life, and was glad- maybe delighted - to be "the one" who stayed behind in the stable and got to be with Jesus.
And I'm gonna get there too- one day. But in the meantime, I hugged my little ones tight. They are mine for right now. I am here in this moment for this reason, just like Joshua.
I can't say what causes me to have these fears and feelings of gloom. I can say, being brutally honest, that sometimes facebook is really hard for me. It seems like page after page of newborn babies, pregnancy posts, happy pictures from the delivery room. And in spite of these beautiful children that live in my home, and my wonderful compassionate husband, I still struggle with bitterness, sadness, longing, and loneliness. Yes, loneliness. Infertility makes you feel like you are alone in a sea of happy fertile people who were blessed to be able to plan their families, and see the natural fruit of their wombs. Infertility makes you feel left out. It's like being the only kid not picked for a team in kickball, or not being asked to a school dance when all your friends are going.
This weekend I was seriously bummed out. Just watching the kids play made me sad. I couldn't enjoy them because all I could think about was how broken and imperfect this world is - and how broken and imperfect I am. I thought about their circumstances, and how they came to us- and I thought about what I used to imagine as my future. You know- a good old, pity party.
And at the height of my brokenness and self-loathing, the boys asked for a bedtime story. I reached into the big basket and pulled out three board books. "Pick one," I offered, already too distracted by my pitiful nonsense to pay much attention to the titles. John noticed one of the three books was Max Lucado's book, The Crippled Lamb. He muttered something about that sounding like a really depressing children's book. I didn't remember the whole story. I knew it was something about a lamb that was there during the nativity. In a fleeting moment, I thought about putting that one back. It might be easier to stick with Little Monster or the Berenstein Bears than deal with the complicated theology of barnyard animals as spiritual beings.
The boys followed me into the bedroom and naturally they picked "the lamb one." I opened the book and started to read, telling myself not to get emotionally dragged into the story. Max Lucado is great - but sometimes a little heavy for a Sunday night. Big C was sitting on my lap while Little C wandered in and out of the closet, talking to himself and counting his fingers. I managed to get through the first part, about how poor little Joshua (the crippled lamb) always felt left out because he had a bad leg and the other lambs were mean to him. I remembered parts of the story as I read (it's easily been eight years since I read this one) about Abigail the nice old cow who encouraged Joshua that "God has a special place for those who feel left out." Why did that stupid dreamy-eyed cow have to say that? I got choked up on page two. Big C was sitting in my lap and he pointed to the drawing of the cow. "Is that his new mommy?" He asked. I sniffed. "Yes, she's . . . well, she's like his foster . . . foster mom." And then I really fell apart. Joshua the lamb was not able to go into the fields with the other lambs because he was crippled. He was different. He was broken. And my heart was just broken. I cried big, crocodile tears, desperately trying to pull myself together. But who was I crying for? The fictional lamb with a disability? For the next few pages, Joshua watches the birth of Christ unfold in the stable where he was left behind with Abigail the cow. When the baby Jesus is cold, Joshua curls up beside him to keep him warm and he stops crying. And then Joshua is reminded of Abigail's words: God does have a special place for those who feel left out.
As I wept my way through this children's book, Big C looked at me with complete astonishment. "You really ARE crying!" he exclaimed. "Yes, I am," I replied. Little C had stopped digging in his diaper long enough to notice my emotional breakdown.
"What's wrong with you?" Big C asked, "It's just a story. Besides it's all okay now, see, he's not sad anymore."
He was right. Joshua, the crippled lamb, made peace with his disability and his loss. He accepted God's purpose for his life, and was glad- maybe delighted - to be "the one" who stayed behind in the stable and got to be with Jesus.
And I'm gonna get there too- one day. But in the meantime, I hugged my little ones tight. They are mine for right now. I am here in this moment for this reason, just like Joshua.
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