Scraps by Nobody

Redialing the Wrong Number

2012-01-25T09:29:00.000-05:00

Recently, one of my children wanted to go to an event, but they did not have the information about time and place. I told them to make a phone call and get the info. About ten minutes later, I walked past the bathroom door and heard furious beeping, as if the phone was being dialed over and over again... which it was. Here is how a conversation later went:

Mother: Did you get your information?

Daughter: No, I never got through.

Mother: Was the line busy?

Daughter: No. I dialed and it wouldn't go through, so I kept hitting redial.

This is a true story that sums up my daughter's approach to life. Dial wrong, then keep hitting redial. Try something that does not work, then keep trying it, over and over again.

Making Room

2011-11-20T09:42:00.001-05:00

"And she brought forth her firstborn Son, and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths, and laid Him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn." Luke 2:7

From the instant He was born, Jesus was identified with the lost souls of this earth. He was born in an inappropriate place, because there was no room in the usual places. He and His mother became "at risk", turning a filthy stable into a delivery room. I assume they did not have a lot of material resources. Material resources would have likely secured a more appropriate place and attendants. Yet the owners of the inn gave what shelter they had to offer the poor young couple. And the poor young couple wrapped their child in the cloths that they had, and made room for Him in the manger.

Making room is what makes or breaks us. Someone in this world must make room for us, or we may be lost. Someone must be willing to allocate times, spaces, and resources just for us and our use. It does not matter if we are a day old or ninety years old. Making room is the essence of true love.

In our culture we are not about making room. We believe that people need a minimum number of square feet, and dollars, and whatever. We limit how much room we are willing to make, based upon the formulaic mandates of the American dream.

Making room is risky business. What if that poor young couple sues me because their baby picks up some illness in my stable? What if I make room and that person robs me? What if I make room and I find myself impoverished, exhausted, infected? What if making room leaves me brokenhearted?

Making room implies something that we often do not consider. Making room requires sacrifice. If I decide to make room, I must reallocate my resources. I must give up some of my precious spaces... spaces I have filled with beauty, or usefulness, or things. I must give up some of my material resources. It costs to add a place to the table, a seat in the car, a bed under a roof. Where must I trim my budget to make room for this person? I must give up some of my time. My day is already full. The demands on my attention are daunting, and yet I must carve out the time. A bed and meal is not enough. Boarding houses do that. Homeless shelters do that. Prisons do that. Families are different. Families make room, and this is how they love.

Risky, messy, costly love. The only kind of love that can save us.

Are You Feeling Old?

2011-11-03T08:12:00.000-05:00

I don't believe we give young people enough credit. Our hearts and minds are moved powerfully when we are young and have very little power of our own. When we are old and powerful, we find our hearts cold and dull. It is not strange. It is the way of the human race. We must wake up each day and force our old bodies and tired minds to do the work we began when we were young.

We have not changed our minds, or given up, or failed. We have not necessarily grown older and wiser. We are exactly the same as we used to be, only now we have the power to do something about it.

Back then no one took me seriously because I was so young. Back then I had no money, no education, no experience. Back then I was scattered and disorganized. Back then I was selfish and easily discouraged.

What now? My back hurts when I get up in the morning?

Still Here

2011-10-31T08:37:00.000-05:00

I find it unbelievable that it has been over three months since I have posted here. Even the format for posting has changed, so I shall have to overcome that as well.

Life is moving at a breakneck pace, and I am currently just hanging on for dear life, waiting for this ride to slow down enough to get my bearings. Life is good, but very full, and very overwhelming.

We are never ready for what is coming at us, but we are as ready as anyone can be. And then we just have to learn how to do it.

After a time of doing, we realize we are not very good at it. Then we get down to the business of disciplining ourselves to becoming a little better at it each day.

A little better each day is better than wowing the crowd. But it is tiring, and doesn't leave much time for luxurious activities like blogging.

I miss blogging, and I want to make time for it. Maybe if I stop showering I can bang out two short posts a week? No?

We shall see how it goes. But for now, the two of you who still check in will know I have not entirely abandoned this endeavor.

The Pursuit of Happiness (Among Other things)

2011-07-25T21:15:00.001-05:00

A friend recently posted a link to this article over on F*acebook, and I highly recommend taking the time to read it. It's a bit long, and has a bit of language, but still well worth your time. I'm posting about this article here today, because it's a topic I've been ruminating on for awhile. I've read other blog posts and articles on the subject too, but this one really does a good job of tying up all the loose ends.

The quote that resonates with me days later is this: “Happiness as a byproduct of living your life is a great thing, but happiness as a goal is a recipe for disaster.” (Barry Schwartz, a professor of social theory at Swarthmore College) I guess I had never thought of it in exactly that way before, but it's so true, and on so many levels.

Personally I can comment on the folly of making happiness my life goal. But isn't it what every child of trauma does? "When I grow up I'm going to do things differently. Then I'll be happy. How will I do things differently? Well, I don't know, but I'm going to be happy. You'll see." Happy is like a sore tooth. Every morning you wake up and thrust your tongue into the sore spot to see how much it hurts. All day long you poke at it and suck on it, testing to see if it's better or worse. Every morning you wake up and poke the holes in your life to see if they still hurt, and if they do, then you know you are still not happy. This of course makes you even more unhappy.

As a parent I can also testify to the folly of making a happy family your idol. Mainly because it just doesn't work. You can't make everyone happy all the time, and you'll kill yourself trying. Or you'll make your kids happy, and feel unhappy because you rather suspect you should have made them unhappy, at least for a little while.

Another line of thought this article brings to my mind, is how this commonly accepted method of child rearing flies in the face of parenting children of trauma...forget parenting children with full blown RAD. And most of us fall into that trap. We go to our adoption classes and we think, "Sure things will be crazy for a little while. But once the kids adjust a bit, I can get down to the business of being the parent I always dreamed I would be." Never mind that it apparently screws up emotionally healthy kids.

And then we feel like failures because it's never.going.to.happen. And we get this new, big hole to probe every morning, to inform us that we definitely aren't happy.

The paradox in my life, is that when I stopped chasing happiness, I got happier. When I stopped trying to make my kids happy, or even worrying about whether they were happy...well, I can't speak for their internal emotional states, but they seem reasonably contented. The less I poke at the sore spots, the more I realize how much time I used to spend poking, and prodding, and fretting. It's not like I've gotten numb or apathetic. Far from it. It's just that I've come to expect the sore spots, and perceive them as part of normal. Pain, fatigue, frustration, anxiety...there's nothing wrong with them. You don't ignore them, because they have their own purposes, but you don't let them rule over your life. I'm convinced that growing up healthy means that you learn this early in life.

I was a late bloomer, but still I am blessed to stumble over the truth in my old age. I am an old, stubborn dog learning a new trick, and that my friends, makes me happy.

Baby News

2011-06-14T07:30:00.000-05:00

I blogged here.

Fruit and Nuts

2011-05-11T16:13:00.002-05:00

A few days ago I read my dear friend Christine's blog post about Mother's day, and as I read my head was bobbling up and down in agreement and complete empathy. You should definitely go read it, if you haven't already, but I'll sum up. She says that this Mother's Day was bittersweet for her. That her children still have difficulty dealing with a day to honor someone else. Sure, they can hold their stuff together, at least until the day after. Maybe even completely. But why? Well, because they know what happens when they trash a special day. There are consequences, and they have to make repairs. They have stuff they want to do this week. Restitution and repair aren't on their short list. So though it is a victory of sorts, it still has little to do with loving and honoring Mom.

I submit that it is. Love your neighbor as yourself. What does that even mean?

I think about emergencies, crises, chaotic times. These are the times that love is most necessary, yet so often absent. We kick it into overdrive. We do what we have to do to get through. Sometimes survival is all we can muster the energy for.

So what happens when you live in survival mode from the day you are born. Children are naturally self centered, even cherished, nourished children. They have to be taught to look beyond themselves. It takes time and patience, and when we see it happening, we know that our children are growing to maturity.

My first reaction to my traumatized child's survival mode is to say they are completely self centered. They look out for number one. They make sure they get their share. They fight for it if need be. But this is a superficial understanding of the situation. My child is not loving their self, because they battle against that same self, at the same time they battle everyone else.

My child is trapped in a place where they can only fight for themself in this very moment. It's an emergency, a crisis. Adrenaline is flooding, fear is consuming. There is no tomorrow, there was no yesterday. They cannot even have empathy for their own future self. They do not care if their actions in this moment will cost their self dearly. They have no compassion for their own future tears or regrets. They don't give a damn about the loss that child of tomorrow may suffer. I have seen them weep for their own stupidity, and cry out how much they hate that child of an hour ago, that made such a mess for them to have to deal with.

Part of growing up, part of learning to love ourselves, is learning to discipline ourselves in the moment. The child learns to predict an outcome. They learn to empathize with their future self, understanding how they may feel with that outcome. They make their choices based on that understanding and empathy.

Their world begins to expand. Love your neighbor as yourself. Life is not an emergency. I am not in crisis. I can have compassion on myself. How might it feel to have compassion on another? I experience kindness. Can I share it as well? Reach inside and find that there is something there, other than fear and adrenaline. The fruit of mature self discipline is sweet, and there is enough for myself, and plenty to share.

Learning to discipline our self for our self, is the budding of the virtue of self discipline. Learning to discipline our self so that we may properly love others is the mature fruit. And so while the immature, hard little fruits are still bitter in our mouths, they are there. Given a full summer of sun and rain, I have hope that they will grow and ripen.

Of course Christine knows this as well as I do. I am truly preaching to the choir here. That's what we do. We speak the truth of our situation, and our heads bobble up and down in agreement. I know how you feel, I feel that way too. Then we go our way, thinking about it, turning it over in our mind, probing it for more than our own emotional reaction, probing it for the truth. My emotions tell me the fruit is a little bitter and hard yet. I feel the urge to spit it out. Wait a minute...what am I saying here? That's fruit mama, that's FRUIT!

For The Working Mom

2011-05-09T08:59:00.002-05:00

A sometimes free-form, sometimes rhyming poem by Boo, in honor of my birthday and Mother's Day. A departure from her usual acrostic style birthday card, it was attached to a pan of rice custard pudding (one of my favorites), that she had labored over for hours, throwing away more than one failure before achieving success. In the world of RAD, nothing is sweeter than rice custard pudding and a poem on lined notebook paper.

there are so many words i could use to describe
what you do, and how, and why

now the what, that's most easy to explain
they are very practical things for which you need a rather large brain
cleaning, i would say, is the most heavily done
which you find can also be a lot of fun
(except for cleaning my unmentionables)
cooking you do, more often than not
and when we rave about your soups
your heart becomes softened
sewing, i would say, is your most meticulous job
which you prefer to do alone, away from your children-mob
(and sometimes even dad!)
life lessons you teach are also quite important
you've helped me out of many rough spots
and helped me get my life sorted
(dad is always there too!)

now the how
i think explaining it is a no-brainer
cleaning and cooking with your hands
i've seen nothing stranger
now, the sewing , i would say,
is done with use of your mind
and your hand-sewn jobs
as a result are one-of-a-kind
the life lessons are given with mind and mouth
which are the very same lessons
that you've gone through
with the very same how
(how, meaning solution)

now the why is much more complex
and time consuming
this definitely needs the most explaining
and the most reviewing
there are many reasons why you do what you do
but the first, and foremost
is just because you want to
from this i choose to expand very greatly
because the in-depth reason is actually very stately

the main reason you want to is simply this:
you care enough to want to
you care enough about your family
to want to keep our clothes clean
you care enough about your family
to want to give us the advice we need
and all because you choose to

and the fact that you do all this
with no complaining, whatsoever amiss
makes me carry a great respect
because of the fact that i am so thoroughly impressed
(and because i appreciate your work)

so for the working mom i have this message:
thank you
i hope you know just how much you are needed
and the simple knowledge
just how much you are wanted
for the working mom i say it again
thank you
and i hope you comprehend
the sincerity of this message.

Baby Update

2011-05-04T13:45:00.000-05:00

Blogged here.

Pets...the Bitter and the Sweet

2011-04-21T18:40:00.000-05:00

I have always felt sorry for folks who don't love animals. And secretly I have suspected something might be wrong with them. I am a true, dyed in the wool, not entirely rational animal lover. I will labor over whether I should spend an extra twenty cents on a higher fat content gallon of milk, yet a plunk down the insane amount of cash required to buy a bottle of insulin for my cat. My animals make me happy in a completely uncomplicated, albeit expense way that humans have yet to aspire to. This doesn't mean I don't complain and grouse when the poodle steals half a pound of fudge, vomits it all over my entire house, and requires emergency vet care on a holiday. I do, and loudly. When the elderly cat slowly claws her way up onto my bed, shredding both my quilt and my leg, I yelp. But over all, my pets make me smile more often than anything else on this earth. This may be directly related to the fact that I have a poodle.

Along with the sweetness comes the bitterness of losing them. Unless you get yourself a parrot or an elephant, you will likely outlive your beloved pet. This week was a bitter week, losing my sweet mama goat after twelve long years. She was at least four years old when I got her, so she had achieved elderly status in goat years. More than four years ago when our girls came to us, life was thrown into the maelstrom, and the pets were neglected in the chaos. It was a very mild early winter, and most of December that year was more like October or early November. The problem with livestock and mild weather is this, that when it is warm they choose to sleep outdoors on the ground. Unfortunately, if it turns suddenly cold, they can actually freeze their limbs. One morning Baby Boy came indoors, frantic because my mama goat had let out a horrible cry upon rising, and was struggling about her pen. I ran outdoors in my PJs to check on her, and the girls took the opportunity to begin swinging from the chandeliers. I was so angry at them, that I made them come outside and buckle up in the truck, and I told them I didn't care if they ate each other, but they were to stay put while I took care of the goats.

I was quickly flooded with guilt, knowing I had not been keeping a close eye on much of anything but the girls, and all of the pets (and humans) were suffering for it. Thus began a regimen of geriatric goat pampering, that involved thawing out in a crate in my kitchen, warm bottles of water with a twist of molasses, and a blanketed crate in the barn on any night that dipped below twenty degrees. I was acutely aware that she could have died because of my inattention. I was also aware that every one of our animals was stressed by the chaos reigning in the house, and that I had ceased to take joy in the pets, seeing them only as another taxing chore. Nursing my goat back to health, and pampering her for another four and a half years was the gift of that stressful, remorse filled morning. I was suddenly, instantly aware of how heartbroken it made me to discard my pets each day, in order to feed the endless needs of my children. Pet care became my self care.

A few days ago, Baby Boy again alerted me to trouble, and again I ran to the goat pen in my PJs. The news was not good. Somehow in the space of one rainy day she had failed to the point of not being able to rise. We gave her some warm water and vitamins, and tried to entice her to eat. She sniffed at grain, and strawberries, and soft green hay. She was fat from winter, and her black coat was glossy and thick with winter fleece. She looked the picture of health, but I could tell something was very wrong, and that her old lady frame would not survive it. She laid in her house all day, baaing quietly whenever the other goats would make noise. She sounded fussy. I checked on her at bedtime and she was quiet. She died during the night.

Yesterday I cried on and off all day, and went out in the thin spring sunshine to finish mucking her pen and clean out her little house. Beloved husband and Baby Boy took her body to the vet for disposal, and Hippie Boy helped me muck the pen. Mark that down in history. As we worked, he asked me what appeal all of this held for me, that it did not hold for him. I shrugged. I don't know why I love to clean up rotting hay and manure, or stand listening to the movements of these funny little animals. In my mind's eye, I can see back through a dozen Springtimes, see other barns and goat pens. I can hear those same soothing sounds, smell the same rotting hay, and see my children playing with the kids. I can feel the hours spent sitting on a crate, brushing the raggedy fleece out of spring coats, a black head leaning in with eyes closed. "Please brush my neck and scratch my knobby head." The lawn is littered with giant gray balls of wool, and I tell the children that the birds will line their nests with them. With my mama goat passes the image of a petite little girl struggling to "herd" her to her pen in the morning, or sitting at the homemade milking stand, racing to finish the milking. Long gone is that little girl, grown to a woman, and the little boys that sat in the hay to hold the wriggling kids are disappearing as well. Even the crazed little girls buckled into the backseat of the truck are gone, replaced by quiet, composed teens.

Our pets help us mark time and places, and at no time more than when we lose them. We remember the day we brought them home, how old were the children, what house did we live in. Almost every day of their lives, they do the very same things. They are, after all, beasts. It is easy to let them blend into the background of our lives in a way that our human housemates will not tolerate. It is easy to take for granted all the quiet delight they can add to our lives. Then in an instant they are gone, leaving a hole we did not anticipate.

Ode to the Queen Bee

2011-03-24T13:40:00.000-05:00

I was ~~suffering through~~ enjoying a snow day with my children, when my phone chanced to ring. It was a dear friend, who lives far enough away, that she was surprised to hear about my snow. They were having rain. Later I hung up the phone, and Baby Boy remarked that I had been on the phone for A LONG TIME. Yeah so. And it was a long time, but not nearly as long as we've talked before. I couldn't begin to number the hours we have whiled away typing emails, chatting on the phone, talking in person, deep into the night. We haven't known one another since we were girls, but it seems as though we should have. Memories of childhood birthdays and slumber parties seem built in. The fact that we grew up in different states and graduated ten years apart makes no difference.

Last year, when I went to Orlando, I wasn't sure why I was going. Of course now I know how incredibly important my Orlando gals are to me, and how they enrich my life. I guess I could say, I didn't know what I was missing. But so many of them (both last year, and this year too) were doing this thing solo. They felt so alone, isolated, craving one other person to reach out to that would understand their unconventional life. Part of going to Orlando for me I realized, was to understand how good I had it. I already had that one person, and they had me. And even more amazing, we had a history that went back farther than adoption. We had begun our adoption journeys at roughly the same time, taking different yet similar paths. Still we knew one another before, and now in the midst, and someday we plan to be old ladies together...no children allowed.

For many years we had been friends turned to sisters. Our children were born, one after the other, and grew together like cousins. Our husbands were friends, often brother-like, snoozing on opposite ends of a couch, like mirror images. We moved, they moved, we moved again. Sometimes we have lived close together, now spread apart. Nine or ten years ago we began our adoption journey. Had they not begun theirs as well, no doubt ours would be a tale of yet another close friendship lost, as lives diverged and drifted apart. I have always been grateful for this, not fully comprehending the miraculousness of it. My Orlando girls helped me to see it for the treasure it is. Such is true friendship. C.S. Lewis describes this in his book "The Four Loves", and I would not presume to try and say it better.

One knows nobody so well as one's "fellow." Every step of the common journey tests his metal; and the tests are tests we fully understand because we are undergoing them ourselves. Hence, as he rings true time after time, our reliance, our respect, and our admiration blossom into an Appreciative love of a singularly robust and well-informed kind. If, at the outset, we had attended more to him and less to the thing which our Friendship is "about," we should not have come to know or love him so well. You will not find the warrior, the poet, the philosopher or the Christian by staring in his eyes as if he were your mistress: better fight beside him, read with him, argue with him, pray with him.

In a perfect friendship this Appreciative love is, I think, often so great and so firmly based that each member feels, in his secret heart, humbled before all the rest. Sometimes he wonders what he is doing there among his betters. He is lucky beyond desert to be in such company. Especially when the whole group is together, each bringing out that is best, wisest, or funniest in all the others....Life, natural life, has no better gift to give. Who could have deserved it?

Happiness, Attachment Styles, and Baggage

2011-03-23T09:47:00.001-05:00

Lately, I have been enjoying a conversation with a commenter that has been with me on my blog since nearly the beginning. Our comments have gone back and forth on occasion, and this time they have lengthened out into a dialogue, that I thought perhaps I would move to an actual blog post.

I would begin by saying that I have read M's comments in the past, and clicked over to her blogs and read her ramblings. Her blogs jump back and forth between private and public, so I don't always get to check in, but when I do, I have always enjoyed her insights and quirky humor.

That being said, I am moving our discussion in the comments out into a blog post, because some of her points are very worth considering, even if we don't always agree in conclusion. Then also, I suspect that we may not define our terms exactly the same, which is important to the discussion. The first term I would like to discuss is "happiness". M speaks of herself as sad, lonely, and sometimes wishing this wasn't her life. Obviously this isn't the definition of happiness as we generally see it. But happiness isn't the end all. I can be sad, lonely, and wishing certain things about my life were different, but still know that I am exactly where I should be, and doing exactly what I should be doing. Happy is an elusive feeling, and can hinge on something so small as my inability to fall asleep, or digest my dinner. I love happiness as much as the next person. I want to feel happy, and I want to make the people I care about happy. But happy isn't my goal, or at least it shouldn't be. I admit, sometimes I get sidetracked. I would prefer to be at peace about my life, than to be chasing after happy feelings.

Another point M brings up is attachment "styles". I find this an interesting thought, because it's true that we all have different styles of attaching, though I believe the attachment itself is essentially the same. In the very beginning, attachment is basic to most parents and children. Babies need care and protection, and parents provide it. Attachment and trust begins to be formed. But beyond that, families are very individual, and so are people. Some families show attachment to one another one way, and others another. It's like a secret language, and without the ability to speak and understand it, attachment may be difficult or even impossible. Adoption complicates this on so many levels. Lots of parents try really hard to give their children their very best, and the children never receive it. Likewise, many children try very hard to please their parents, and the parents never even see it. It seems sad, like something you'd see in a movie..something obvious, and easily explained away. But in real life I'm not so sure. People come in different shapes and sizes. They have vastly different temperaments. They have their own tastes and preferences. They have enormous difficulty understanding anything outside their own viewpoint.

I might be very social, thriving on interaction with others. My sister might be solitary, and value quiet. How tempting for me to look at her and think her existence is sad. For me it would be. Some people want lots of physical contact to cement a relationship, others feel loved when their space is respected. Some people need lots of kind words to build them up, others value a few carefully chosen words more. I believe that the best families respect this, and don't try to force a particular "style" of interaction on any one member. It is the job of parents to teach their children to recognize love in all its many forms.

M also asserts that attachment within the family one is raised, does not correlate to relationships later in life, particularly those with romantic partners. I happen to know there are studies that do in fact assert this, though one doesn't have to put stock in studies. Do you live under a rock? Do you know any real people? It seems to me, that every person I know is substantially formed by the environment in which they were raised, and how well they learned to navigate the complexities of attachment to other human beings. Even those who ran far, far away from their roots, and resolved to never repeat the patterns they had pressed on them in childhood, are still formed by it all. Their fight against it does not deny that it exists, or that they are haunted by it. And the part about romantic partners? That's just wishful thinking, hoping the influences of their upbringing won't eventually invade your relationship. Nobody on earth has a perfect family. Nobody on earth doesn't have at least some baggage. Sooner or later it'll get unpacked all over your partner. It's just best to hope your partner has an overnight bag, and not a steamer trunk.

So, while M and I might have to agree to disagree about some things, this discussion makes me think that although attachment is necessary and fundamentally the same in all of us, it also may look very different in practice. I may have children who are very loving and attached in the best, most healthy ways, who still choose to express that in different ways than I would choose. I should take note of my own teaching, and learn to recognize love in all its many forms, and not just the ones that are familiar and comfortable to me.

Unlike M, I do believe that attachment is fundamental and necessary. Where it does not exist, either healing must occur, or the lack will be evident throughout the life. But even after healing occurs, and I believe it can, my child's attachment to me and others, will not necessarily mirror mine. It may look and feel very different, and even be hard for me to glimpse or interpret. If God is merciful, we will learn to speak the other's language before one of us walks away. Because yes M, I do think it's tragic when people discard one another and go their way alone.

Parenting 101

2011-03-18T16:15:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking lately, about how my expectations and theories of parenting have changed in the last few years... been washed away really. I could title this post, Things I Thought I Knew About Parenting. Or maybe, Why Control Freaks Make Bad Therapeutic Parents. Which is to say, when I parented neuro-typical, securely attached children, I was a bit of a know-it-all-control-freak. And it worked pretty well. I was the parent that "ran a tight ship" and people respected me for it. I was organized, and prepared, and always had a plan. Don't get me wrong. My children didn't march along in perfect rythym to my plan. I had downright difficult children. The fact that I wasn't a pushover, and maintained a lot of structure was part of the reason that my most difficult child eventually began to succeed. It's probably partly why all of them have done as well as they have.

So when I began to think of parenting children of trauma, I mistakenly thought this approach which had worked so well with my difficult, yet securely attached child, would work with my difficult traumatized child. Meh. Not so much. At first it was a free-for-all. I had expectations, and so did my children, and NONE of them were even remotely the same. For all intents and purposes, we were speaking different languages. I wanted them to behave a certain way, and they had no interest in behaving that way, and I had no idea how to get them to comply, and they were completely uninterested in complying. And round and round we went. Not much that had worked with my bio children worked with these girls. I had emptied my entire bag of tricks, and I was still stumped.

I also talked way too much. I wanted the girls to understand why we did things certain ways. I wanted them to see that these were good, healthy ways to do things. In short, I wanted them to want ~~to do things my way~~ to do the right things. Words, words, words. We were drowning in words, and remember, we weren't even speaking the same language. It was a complete waste of time and energy, and I was still stumped.

Not that I hadn't been poring over the books and websites on attachment and therapeutic parenting. I was. But someplace in me, I just didn't want to believe what I was reading. I thought that I had this parenting thing down, and given enough time and commitment, I could lick this thing using conventional means. I didn't want to let go of my conventional means. It meant that I had to let go of my dreams for my beautiful family. It meant that I would have to start parenting in a whole new way, that was totally unconventional, counter-intuitive, and really, really uncomfortable. For all of us.

But as you know, we can't just drift down the River of Denial forever. Real life slaps you upside the head, and at some point you have to start telling yourself the truth. So I began to change my approach, and as much as I hated, hated, hated it, we began to see positive results. The results were small, and slow, and I would get ridiculously excited about every tiny step forward. I would express my excitement, and grant privileges and rewards for hard work, and I would get slapped upside the head again.

Over time I learned to contain my excitement, whether it pertained to good news or bad. Keep a level head. Keep a level tone. Praise was given in a monotone, with stripped down phrasing. When dealing with poor choices and behaviors, I have learned phrases like "I can't MAKE you make good choices" and "Well, I'm not going to lose sleep over this."

Success began to replace failure, and order replaced chaos. Unhealthy behaviors changed into healthy ones, good habits were being formed, issues were being worked through. What I wasn't prepared for, was that success still felt like failure. When I went about forming my family it was all about relationships. I had a vision for my relationships with my children. I had a vision for their relationships with one another. And that's the one thing this control freak cannot control. I cannot MAKE my children love each other. I cannot MAKE my children love me or their father. I cannot MAKE them want to be a part of this family.

Now don't get me wrong. I believe that some, or even all of my children may get to a place in life where they want all of those things. But we're not there, and I don't think we're even getting close yet. And yet my children are teenagers, with one foot out the door, wanting to taste independence. It's a mystery how God will make it all come to pass, and without the grace of God, I would have no hope for our future.

At present I admit that I don't know how it all works, or even if it can. It's an endless cycle of having to provide structure and safety to a person who lacks the capacity to understand that this is done out of love, not pure meanness. It's trying to find opportunities for relationship that won't be misinterpreted as weakness, and thus exploited... or as a threat, and thus rejected out of hand. It's reaching for something, and hoping the capacity is there. It's investing all that you have, and not really knowing anything for sure, and all the while grieving a little, that this is the road we found ourselves traveling together. Still we travel together, and that has to count for something.

New Post

2011-03-16T08:34:00.000-05:00

Are we ready? Heck no!

Deal of the Day

2011-03-15T09:28:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I ordered this backpack for $3.99. Originally $39.95, marked down to $13.99, with a coupon ($10 off) and free shipping with my Bean card. And we already have one, so I know it's a great roomy pack.

Short Update

2011-03-13T09:14:00.000-05:00

I had a wonderful trip to Orlando, and have survived reentry into the real world. Also, things are heating up with our most recent adoption, and I blogged here. I have a few things kicking around in my head, so hopefully I'll find time to write them down soon.

No Comment

2011-02-03T09:48:00.003-05:00

I can't even do it. It hits too close to home, and anyhow, these posts say it all. We all need help, and we all need hope, and we all need healing. Every.single.one.of.us.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7

Baby Post

2011-01-19T15:43:00.000-05:00

I blogged here.

Sweet Song, Tough Reminder

2011-01-17T15:20:00.000-05:00

New Year Resolutions

2011-01-14T11:41:00.002-05:00

Yup, I've got 'em. I don't usually, but something came over me this year. Mainly I am trying to be good to myself. We canceled cable, and beloved bought me a Kindle for Christmas. This is helping me accomplish two of my goals, which are to spend less time melting my brain watching TV, and replace that activity with more reading. The second prong of that resolution is to get more sleep, which is also accomplished by turning off the TV and reading, which promptly puts me to sleep. I need a tether so I don't drop my Kindle.

Another two prong resolution is to get moving more, and eat less crap. This is a bit more tricky, as I HATE to exercise, and I do love me some crap-food, especially after 10 PM. I decided I would try and be moving enough to run/walk the 5K we are planning in Orlando. I've been out running/walking five times since I began. I am aiming for three times a week, and I'm on track with that. I have learned a few things along the way:

ALWAYS use the bathroom before leaving to run.
Wear warm clothing when running in sub-zero wind chills.
Allot an hour or so to thaw out various body parts when returning. Eyeballs and butt come to mind.
Do NOT shovel the entire driveway before running, and expect to run for more than a few staggering feet.
Did I mention, ALWAYS use the bathroom before heading out to run?

OK. So I think I am a pathetic athlete when it comes to the running portion of my exercise routine, but truthfully I can kick butt on the power walking, uphill hiking, and enduring the frigid wind. And my running is getting a little better. I go a little further, with less desperation. And if nothing else, I reassure myself that Orlando will be warm and flat, so I should be able to fly...right?

How I Loc Up My Kids

2011-01-13T19:11:00.005-05:00

Megan at Millions of Miles, who I only know in the cyber world, but who I will soon know in person, asked nicely if I could share what we do to maintain locs at our house. I am happy to do so. Sounds like a good reason for a list.

We started our locs with microbraids. We partitioned off the head(s) into little squares, making sure lines were in the right places for parts for some of our favorite classic hairstyles. For one daughter, the grid has stayed pretty tidy. For another, her locs have sort of migrated to where they want to be. For one girl the blocks are pretty tiny as her hair is thick, coarse, and tightly curled...in short, the BEST hair for locs. For one girl, the blocks are bigger as her hair is finer and looser curled. Not the best hair for quick locs, but with time they are shaping up nicely. Some people prefer to start with twists. The braids tend to take awhile to disappear, but they do eventually.
We tighten our locs with a latch hook. We bought it at the craft store for a few bucks, and it has served us well for years. It's hard to explain this process in words, but you can find videos to walk you through it. Basically, as the hair grows, there becomes this looseness at the scalp...kind of like if you left braids in long enough to let your hair grow out. Most of the time it takes 3-4 pulls through with the latch hook to tighten a loc that has been left alone for a month to six weeks. Thicker ones tighten with less, and thinner ones need more. You MUST NOT overtighten, though it can be tempting. It pulls uncomfortably, and chronic overtightening can thin and weaken locs. I always do each "pull" from a different direction, doing the last pull in the direction I want the loc to hang. Many people twist instead of latch hooking. I also take any loose growth and twist it around the appropriate loc before tightening. This keeps the fuzzies down, and lets new growth train itself into the right loc.
My girls only shampoo about once a month to every six weeks. They use shampoo for ladies of color, and this is our method. Locs are hard to get shampoo worked into. If you take a dab and try to work it in, it will remain in one spot only. We take the squirt of shampoo and put it into an old shampoo bottle. Then we fill it up to about the 1/3 level with hot water, and shake it up. The girls gently squirt this over their whole heads, and work the lather down the whole length of the locs. Then they rinse and rinse and rinse and rinse. Rinse until you're sure you have all the shampoo out, and then rinse that much more. Those babies really like to hang onto the suds.
In between, my girls rinse well in the shower, using as warm water as they can stand. This varies depending on what they are doing. In the summer their hair gets a lot of dirt in it because we live in a dusty place. Also the pool water can do a number on their hair. In the winter, it's not so bad. If you don't get locs clean, you can tell. First of all, they can stink. Think wet dog. Also, when you pinch a wet dirty loc between layers of white towel, it will leave a muddy mark. So really, they can't get away with saying they washed their locs when they didn't. Not for long anyhow.
The girls moisturize daily with a homemade spritz. I make it with 5 ounces of warm water, 1 tablespoon of olive oil, and 2 tablespoons of conditioner for ladies of color. They tend to spray close to their scalp most, because scalp dryness plagues them far more than dry hair.
They are careful not to wear their hair in the same style all the time, in order to not stress their locks. They also use soft elastics and head bands...nothing that would "bite" into their locs.
They sleep at night with a silky granny cap. And they wear nylon swim caps under their ski caps.
They enjoy hair that gets longer and longer, is all their own, can be styled in hundreds of styles, and can wash and go. Plus it gets compliments wherever they go, from folks of every color.

It's the Most Horrible Time of the Year

2011-01-09T09:49:00.004-05:00

At least it seems to be, for my three teen girls. Over four years ago, our girls came home to stay, the week before Christmas. I can't even remember that holiday season without wincing. It was chaos through and through. Then we have had our own little pattern of holiday hell every year since. Usually it gears up in late October, then smooths out during the actual holidays. Then it ramps up once more in January, after all the parties, and gifts, and sweets are gone.

I'm not totally certain about all that goes on in their brains. They really seem to enjoy all of the holiday festivities, though I believe it's stressful. Each year they have done a more mature and beautiful job of it. I surmise that the late fall misery may be a sort of bracing themselves. Now it's January, and I am holding my breath. So far so good, but this is usually the time we get nasty fireworks at our house.

Right after Christmas, our snow camping season began. The holiday guests left, and it was time to get to work. I consider this a blessing, because being idle for a week of school vacation isn't really good for anyone here. Everyone, including the girls, were excited to see everything up and running, and to welcome friends who they had not seen for weeks. Two out of three of the girls were happy whenever there were people about, but when it was just the family they were acting like beasts. There was a pathological level of crankiness and meanspiritedness. I gave it a couple of days to smooth out and then I "cleaned house". Miraculously, they were able to adjust their attitudes and behavior.

Now they are back to school, though snow days are breaking up the rhythm of things. I am waiting, and bracing myself, but so far nothing beyond the normal realm of teen crankiness and hormones has surfaced. I know we still have two thirds of the magical month of January left, and I don't want to jinx myself, but is it wrong to have hope that we might actually have made it through our fifth holiday season unscathed?

I Posted...

2011-01-08T16:02:00.001-05:00

...here.

I Need a Shower...Among Other things

2011-01-07T20:37:00.005-05:00

When you have children, no matter how you "have" them, you have ideas about how it will go. Your body has ideas about how it will go. For instance, babies start sleeping more and fussing less, just as you think you are at your breaking point. Nursing hurts so, so bad...and then it hurts a little bit less, and then you can do it in your sleep. Really. Preschoolers cry about everything. Some preschoolers lose their bones when they cry (about everything), and they drop to the ground in a great boneless pile. And then one day, you realize that no one has cried for days. Weird.

When my homegrown children were small, I had a hard time taking showers. I often ate bowls of cold cereal instead of meals. When children napped, I scrambled around the house just trying to get caught up, bracing myself for when that sleepy, fussy voice would alert me to baby's wakefulness.

It wasn't that I didn't like to be clean. It wasn't that I didn't like to eat hot food. It was just that I was always on high alert, watching and listening for my child's need. If I went into the shower, I could not easily stop what I was doing for a moment, to soothe a child or avert a disaster. In fact, I might not hear that a child needed soothing, or that disaster needed averting. Similarly, a bowl or cereal can be put down and taken up again, over and over. Yes, it gets soggy, but no mommy ever died from soggy cereal.

And just when I thought I would never get a shower before four in the afternoon, or sit down to eat an attractive lunch, I began to have those things happen now and then. This is because children grow, and change, and mature. My two month old was not my two year old, was not my four year old, and so it goes.

Then I adopted traumatized children. I went back on high alert. I went back to no showers, and cereal bowls, and scrambling to get housework done when the children were asleep. I was exhausted and bleary-eyed, and chronically under the weather. Nothing about this surprised me. I had planned for it and expected it. My mommy rhythm told me this is how it would be. But then some time went by, and I began to expect the shift, where things slowly got easier. My body seemed to expect it. To be quite honest, it didn't happen for a long time. Long, long past any of my expectations, and even to this day, some of the "easier" is because I have become accustomed to the strain, and not because it has disappeared.

When we have babies, we plan for the hardship...or we do if we're wise. We set our expectations in a place that is reasonable. We cut ourselves some slack. We set up good support systems. And we know that all of it is temporary. Newborns seem like they will be tiny forever, but in the blink of a tired eye...they're off and running.

When we adopt children of trauma, we do all of these things. For a time. And then we begin to despair. We are tired and worn, and we don't know what is reasonable anymore. Temporary stretches out endlessly. Maybe we thought we had supports, and then we realized they weren't supporting us anymore. What then?

We need a Plan B, or C, or D. We need to find other parents who have been stretched beyond that which is natural. We need to have people in our lives who understand the great depth and width of our struggle. We need to love one another, and hold each other accountable, and slowly go crazy together. That is why I am going to Orlando again this year. I am going to see some incredible people I love with all my heart. And I am going to say to anyone there who will listen, "You need to get a little piece of this, and take it home with you. Keep it safe, and treasure it. It will help you to be a better wife and mommy. It will help you to be a better you."

For Those of You who Missed It...

2011-01-07T18:47:00.001-05:00

...Yes! We are adopting again. Here is a link to a little tiny bloggy I set up to keep folks posted about this process. I'll put a link here if I blog there. Also find it in my sidebar.

Special K

2011-01-06T15:35:00.004-05:00

I'm going to make a departure today, from my series on getting organized, and my usual homey posts, and talk about something dear to my heart. Our three teen girls came from foster care, in another state, which I later discovered, is a rather rare occurrence. It's not that it never happens, but I guess it doesn't happen a lot. So when you begin to inquire about adopting children from other states, often you will get a bit of resistance from the professionals, because they just aren't used to doing it. Or if they have done it, they know that it's one huge pain in the hind quarters, and they would rather not discuss it with you.

My girls were so very fortunate in some ways. More than eight years bouncing around in foster care is no picnic, but they had a handful of people that were consistently involved with them. Their GAL was with them from the time they came into care as toddlers, to this very day. She keeps in touch, sends lovely boxes of fruit during the holidays, and is rather like an extra grandma that lives far away. The adoption worker assigned to their case, also had an ongoing history with the girls. It wasn't as long as that of the GAL, but it encompassed years.

When I first began to communicate with K, via email and phone calls, I had no idea how unique she really was, consequently I did not properly appreciate her. All I knew was that I liked her. We both hailed originally from the same area, so we both kind of spoke the same language. She always seemed to be shooting straight from the hip. She never seemed to be keeping information from me. She told me stuff, even stuff I didn't necessarily want to hear. When she didn't know, she always said "I don't know! Let me see if I can find out!" and she always said it with total humility and enthusiasm. She never made me feel like she was being put upon.

After the girls were placed, and we sometimes found ourselves struggling, she always made herself available. Sometimes she could offer assistance, sometimes advice, but more often than not, she just listened and made the right sort of noises. And it kept me from jumping off a bridge. When Soapy had to leave us, I know that K grieved right along with our family, and somehow that made it easier to bear. Ironic, because I am quite sure it didn't make her life any easier.

Now K has moved up to a more administrative position, and though she is supervising our next adoption, she does not handle it directly. Sometimes I forget that we have a professional relationship, because she has become such a dear, dear friend. Once in a great while, we connect by phone, and we talk and talk, about life and the price of tea in China. I always hang up the phone with a smile on my face, and never without thanking her for being such a powerful, positive force in my life. And then I think, "Oh my gosh! What am I thinking, talking about THAT (insert random inappropriate thing) with her?! She's my adoption worker...what must she think?!" And I have a little heart attack, until I remind myself that there isn't much K hasn't seen or heard about us, at one time or another since my girls came home.

She's seen me riding high, and she's heard the ugly cry, more than a few times. I am so very blessed, because I know this is a precious rarity. Foreign adoptions often end when the child is collected, and there is no one to call ever again. Even in foster adoptions, where there are allegedly helps in place, many people find themselves leaving countless messages that go unreturned. There is no human connection, and everyone suffers. Or even worse, they fear the connection, because they have been judged and undercut by the people that should be upholding them.

Yesterday I had one of those long rambling conversations with K. I had called to check on her mailing address, because I had photos to send. But we ended up talking about the girls, the boys, her life and mine. We laughed and told silly stories, and made plans to get together when I visit other friends in her area. We talked about the upcoming adoption, not like worker and adoptive parent, but friend to friend. I complained a little, but not to her, like I expected her to fix it, but as one person who knows how this goes, to another equally frustrated person who knows how it goes. As always, I hung up the phone with a smile on my face, and a lighter step...a lighter heart. Some friends just have that effect.

Storage is My Love Language

2011-01-04T20:25:00.005-05:00

It's true. I love organizing and storage. I love closet systems, and bins, and accordion files. I love to fold, and file, and alphabetize. It soothes my soul. My constant goal is to have every single space in my world, perfectly tidy. Not that it happens, but a girl can dream.

I have always lived in small spaces. What's more, I have often lived in older houses, with oddly configured rooms, and almost no closet space. The last several years I have lived in doublewides, which seem to have certain universal characteristics. Yes, every bedroom has a closet. It is frequently small, with one shelf/hanging bar, and door(s) that make it impossible to access the entire closet. The bathrooms have cupboards that are huge expanses of undivided, deep and wide space. Cut up by pipes and invaded by mice. Base kitchen cabinets are the same...just one big open space. There are no coat closets, anywhere. There is no basement. There is no attic. There's room for a humongous "garden tub", but not usable storage space.

I have learned to make every inch count. Cavernous cabinets need to be divided up. You cannot just pile stuff inside and expect it to stay neat or accessible. Plastic milk crates have worked well for me, especially in the kitchen. It creates cubicles for things to live in, plus multiple levels that act like shelves. I can also create slim spaces along side walls, where I tuck longer flat things, like cookie sheets and baking racks. The same is true of drawers. Dividers help things stay where you put them. There are cheap little plastic ones you can buy, or you can just cut cardboard boxes to fit.

Closets are sacred places, and every inch should be revered. As cheap as I am, I will spend money on closet systems, to maximize every bit of space. Take the time to really think about it and plan. If you stink at this, find someone to help you. Graph paper is your friend. My current closet is a narrow rectangle, accessed by a slim door, dead center. Which means that you can only see, and easily access that which is directly in front of the door. Everything else is effectively buried. I planned this closet with this in mind, and still it aggravates me. I need to live with this, and I'll tell you how I do it. How about a list?

Maximize the amount of shelves, hanging bars, and storage baskets. In this closet it means using even little short shelves about one foot long, stacked into the corners.
Put the things we use constantly, front and center. Put the things we use sometimes, slightly off center. Put the things we use infrequently, furthest in. It minimizes the inconvenience of having to swim to the deepest part of the closet.
Get rid of anything that isn't earning its keep. Everything is eating up real estate, and some things work harder than others. Be ruthless.
Don't over stuff. Like, if a hanging bar will neatly hold a dozen shirts, don't jam thirty onto it. It will be hard to get stuff in and out, and your shelves may fall off the wall. True story.
Have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Really. Organize it just the way you want it, and always put it back that way. I can close my eyes and envision almost every drawer, cupboard, and closet in my house, and tell you what is on each shelf, next to what, etc. This is not because I am compulsive. It's because I am sick of losing things.
Smaller storage spaces means you have to think hard. Fitting things in does not mean jamming and stuffing. Think of it like the proverbial over stuffed suitcase. You can jam the stuff in and sit on it to close it... or you can neatly roll everything and figure out how to put it all in like a jigsaw puzzle. True, it takes more time and work initially, but it works better. It would be lovely to have spacious closets where things could be spread out, and you could just pluck things out as you need them. Not my reality. So I jigsaw puzzle things, and faithfully put them away in their spot. Yes, it's extra work, but it causes less stress in the long run.

You see, that's how it works. It's a lot of work, and some stress up front, to buy yourself less aggravation over the long haul. For me it does more than soothe my soul. It saves me money. When I can see what I have, I only buy what I really need. When I can see that I have what I need, I am less likely to become discontent and impulse buy. Our belongings get cared for better, and last longer. It also saves me time, because I can tidy up quickly, and move onto things I enjoy more. The same is true for the children. Which makes me less cranky with them, and they appreciate that. Truth is, I nag less when we're organized and neat.

So look hard at your storage spaces, and imagine ways to expand them. Then look hard at unused nooks and crannies, and see how you might use them as well. I built a free floating closet system behind my sons' bedroom door. It was about fifteen inches deep dead space. Their room had no closet, and now it does. I use bins under beds and other furniture. I add shelves and baskets wherever they work. I hang things up, on walls and from ceilings. It will take time, and energy, but in the end it will save you far more. And remember to always be tweaking. If something isn't working, change it up. If your children outgrow your current system, rework it. And know that whatever you do, you get better with practice, until sometimes you hardly notice that you are trying.

What's for supper?

2011-01-03T17:09:00.003-05:00

Tonight's menu includes Spicy Pumpkin Soup and a fruit platter. I don't puree it (the soup I mean, though I don't puree the fruit either), because it's a lot of work and mess to get rid of some tiny chunks of onion. We like it slightly chunky. I also substituted a cup of half and half for the half cup of cream, and reduced the milk by a half cup. Because it was what I had, and it works just fine. Currently there is a dispute in my house about whether this is the best soup ever. Some folks vote for the Mashed Potato Soup. I think it's a tie. Both are sinfully easy.

I Know What I Know...

2011-01-02T17:01:00.006-05:00

The last few days we've been working on locs. Vacation is a good time to get them tightened up and washed. Everyone will go back to school tomorrow with great hair. One of my daughters has had locs since about six months after she came to live with us. The other has had them for nearly two years less. The older locs are shorter because the hair was shorter when they were begun, but the locs are more mature and uniform. They are on the thinner side, and very tubular. We started out with neat parts and lines, but the natural way of her head has caused them to migrate where they will, so like me, her natural part is cocked off to one side of center. Her younger sister's locs are longer, but still retain the shape of the microbraids which began them. They are slowly disappearing, but you can find them still. Her hair is also looser and finer than her sister's hair, which means it locks more slowly and creates lots of messy fuzz that I must work into the locs each time I tighten them.

I was working at this the other day, and thinking how long it had been since I had worked on her sister's locs. This younger daughter never does anything with her hair unless I prompt her to do so. When I say that it's time to work on hair, she sits down submissively, with much sighing and complaints of a "numb butt". But she never initiates caring for her locs on her own. In contrast, her older sister has wanted to learn how to wash and tighten her own locs from the day I put them in. She was like a house afire, begging and pestering me to teach her to do every single bit of their care. I was kind of learning as I went, so I made her wait until I felt they were well established. Then I watched over her as she took on their care, making sure she wasn't doing any damage. In an instant, she was proficient enough to take over.

At first blush, I put this off to her typical teen desire to be independent. What teen really wants mom to have to do their hair? I would occasionally offer help, but she would politely turn me down. For long hours she would sit perched on a stool in front of the mirror, working away. She would sigh, and complain of tired arms and shoulders, but still she would keep on. Sometimes she would pay her sister to do the hard-to-reach section in the very back, but only if she had a little extra cash. Most times she would do her whole head alone. Even when her sister trashed her locs last year, and she was intensely grateful for the hours I spent saving them, I could still feel her impatience over having to sit as I carefully restored each damaged loc.

As I stood laboring over her sister's head, it came to me in a moment of quiet clarity. She wasn't displaying independence...she was displaying fear. I believe she has loved her locs from the day one, but she was also afraid. What if I leave this place, and the next place doesn't "do" locs? How would I keep them if no one knows how to care for them? I've seen the pictures and heard the stories. Foster care is a black girl's hair crap shoot. Sometimes you get lucky and they take great care of your hair. Sometimes you end up looking like Don King.

As if on cue, she appeared by my elbow. For a moment she stood watching me twist the strands of her sister's hair. "You know Mom," she said, "I really, really like my locs. I like my hair the best like this. I always want to have locs, and grow them really long." With this she tossed her head back and forth.

I smiled and said, "I know."

Out With the Old...

2010-12-31T17:10:00.005-05:00

As the year draws to a close, I would like to continue with a few thoughts on simplifying and ordering our lives and spaces. This post is devoted to the idea that you cannot have it all... or more accurately perhaps, you cannot KEEP it all. Unless you live in a huge house, with tons of closets, an attic and basement, and maybe a barn or two, you cannot hang onto everything that makes it way through your doors. Even if you do have that place, it is remarkable how quickly you can fill up even the giant house. If you are like me, you may live in smallish homes, with less than adequate storage space, and awkward configurations of rooms. Many of you have expressed your frustration with the overflow of stuff that seems to have taken over every nook and cranny of your homes. To this I say, you must be ruthless. There is no other way but to get rid of a good deal of it.

For me, there were several issues in play. The first issue was my lack of maturity. I hadn't had the chance to try a million things and discover what I was truly passionate about. I was young, and full of energy. I wanted to be passionate about gourmet cooking, and heirloom sewing and quilting. I wanted to grow my own herbs, and raise chickens and goats, and make my own cheese. I wanted to scrapbook all my photos, and play the guitar, and learn to cane chairs. I wanted to homeschool my children, and use cloth diapers, and...and....and.....you get the idea. Now I am old and mature, and I realize that I cannot be passionate about everything. I certainly can't use my aptitude as a measuring stick for what I should be passionate about, because I can do many things well. Far too many things to have passion for all of them. Over time I have winnowed down the list to a few things I really love or need to do. All the rest have gone away, and with them, all the gear and geegaws needed to perform them. The few things I really DO, I let myself have the good stuff, like a really nice sewing machine, which has earned its bit of real estate inside my teeny bedroom closet. Or the bins of excellent quality fabric stored under my bed. Like the chocolate molds that eat up the whole cabinet over my refrigerator. Like the books that line soooo many of my walls. But so many other things have disappeared. Some things I have sold, some given away to a friend who would use it, some donated. I don't miss the things that are gone.

Maturity and experience have also taught me that I do not need many of the things I once thought I did. Neither do my children. We live with far less clothing and linens. I do laundry every single day. We do not need one of everything for every child. They can learn to share. I do not need to own things I can borrow or rent. The list goes on and on, and applies to nearly every area. But in the beginning I thought I had to have it all.

I have a system for ongoing purging. Usually I purge the house deeply, twice a year. One of the best times is right before the holidays, but after the New Year will work too. Pre-holiday is ideal, because I clear space for incoming gifts, and mentally tally who has what, and make mental notes of what they may want or need. The whole rest of the year, I do constant maintenance purging. I cycle through the whole house, room by room, cupboard and drawer, closet and bureau. I always have a donation bag or box set up, and am constantly adding to it. Anything beyond repair goes into the trash immediately. Outgrown clothing, unwanted books, unused toys get dropped into the donation box. Another bag or box is set up for "things that don't live here". This is for items that belong to other people...things that got left behind, or borrowed items, or things we plan to pass on to a specific person. When I plan to pass the thrift store, I drop off the donation box. When I plan to see a person who owns something in the other box, I try to remember to give it to them.

I have other boxes too. I have a "wait and see" box. This is where I store things I am unsure about. Things I think I want to get rid of, but still have doubts. If I don't go back for it in a few weeks, it's probably safe to let it go. At times I have had "yard sale" boxes. Right now I live in the sticks, so it is not practical to have yard sales. If you really will carry through and have the yard sale, and you have the space to store the stuff until you do it, by all means, have a yard sale. We have made lots of vacation spending money this way. Currently I have E.bay boxes, because I have had success selling certain items using that forum. Another tip I would offer, is that I put my boxes out in a visible, and mildly annoying location. This inspires me to keep the stuff moving out the door, rather than sitting buried and forgotten somewhere. (Kind of like the laundry baskets in the middle of the living room floor inspiring me to fold it and put it away.)

Another sticking point to paring things down, is the children. Children and their stuff take up a lot of space. Especially if you homeschool them. In some ways you have to relax a bit about this, because everything about them is always in a state of flux...a messy state of flux. They are always growing, and so their closets and drawers need constant supervision, rotating out that which is outgrown or worn out. If you are passing clothes along to younger siblings, you must decide how much you can reasonably store. In the past, I found myself storing everything, in fear that I would "need" it. I stored ugly clothes that I did not like. I stored very specific clothing that had nothing to match it, or would hardly ever be worn. I stored clothes that suited one child's body type, but would never suit their younger sibling. In other words, I wasted a lot of precious time and space, because I was afraid I would be found lacking later on. Now I only save that which is in top condition, that I know for a fact will be used. I am also constantly sorting through their toys and books, weeding out the ones they have outgrown. I only save that which is classic and beloved. Things that they have passed over for newer pursuits go into the donation box. I used to save every homeschool book and teaching aid. Those things are crazy expensive, and what if I find myself teaching at that level again? But as that has happened again and again, I have found myself not returning to the materials I had previously used because I found something that worked better for me, or for a different learner. Now I use the materials, and if I don't have specific plans to use them again soon, I pass them on to other homeschool moms.

I have only touched on a few areas, and made a few suggestions. You must figure out what works for you. The most important thing I have learned along the way, is that it is an ongoing process. You will purge, and it will feel good. Then you will purge again, more deeply, and it will feel even better. Spaces will open up, and you will feel freer. Eventually it will become routine, and you will feel as though you are just skimming bits off the top. But you will never arrive at some place of perfect order. There will always be things you are toying with getting rid of, things you are aware will need replacement soon, things you wish you had. For me, it has been getting to a place of calm and contentment about this ebb and flow. I feel like I am controlling it to some extent, rather than being washed away by it.

A Place of Your Own

2010-12-30T15:05:00.007-05:00

It's hard to decide where to begin, when you feel as though everything needs to be done, but a beginning must be made. I can't really remember where I began, but I am certain it is not where I am sending you first. That is because I can learn from my mistakes. I strongly suggest you begin in your own bedroom. This may seem crazy when the rest of the house feels like it's in shambles, but trust me. You need a quiet place, away from the clutter and noise. You cannot easily gather your strength each day, if your own space makes you cringe. I am sending you to your own bedroom (and bath and closet) because this is where I should have begun my journey.

I would suggest a day just for stripping the room down and deep cleaning. Consider paint, curtains, and bedding later. A clean room is instantly more lovely, and you will have time and peace to ponder making changes or purchases over time. Take separate days for the closet and bath. But keep forging on. As you strip the room down, area by area, pluck out everything that does not belong in your room, and put it outside the door. Set up bins or boxes if need be. Let me suggest a few items that do not belong in your room. Outgrown children's clothing does not belong in your room. The ironing or mending pile does not belong in your room. Children's school work has got to go. Piles of miscellaneous junk definitely do not belong. Last year's taxes and Christmas ornaments from a year and a half ago? Come on! Be ruthless, and don't worry about the growing pile outside the door. As Scarlett O'Hara says, you can worry about that another day. I have rules for my room, and perhaps some of them may work for you. Here's a listie!

Every morning I make my bed. I do it for me, and no one else. It instantly makes my room look neater.
I always fold/hang my laundry neatly in the closet. I never leave laundry piled or laying about my room. Ever. Actually, I pile all my clean laundry in the middle of the living room, because it inspires me to fold it and put it away. When I carry the piles into the bedroom, I place them on the (made) bed, because I cannot go to bed without putting them away.
I do not allow anything related to the children to migrate into my bedroom. In fact, I don't allow the children to migrate into my bedroom. They may knock at the door, and only step inside if invited.
We don't generally eat in the bedroom, though we do occasionally snack. All garbage and dishes are cleaned up promptly in the morning when I make the bed.
All clutter is picked up and put away each morning, the shade is pulled up to let in the sun (or not), and the rug is gone over with the sweeper.
Nothing distracting is allowed in my room. Nothing stress inducing is allowed in my room. Nothing messy is allowed in my room. Nothing stinky is allowed in my room. No half done projects or "To Do" piles are allowed in my room.

I think you get the idea. And yes, I do allow my husband in the room, though he has been known to be messy, and even stinky on occasion. But not in our room. You see, back in the old days, I used to allow my bedroom to be a dumping ground from elsewhere in the house. If I didn't know where to put it, it went in my room. If I couldn't get around to it, it went in my room. If I hated it, but felt too guilty to pitch it...into my room. When I cleaned up the house, my room was the last room on the list, and I hardly ever got there. I had pregnant dust bunnies. I never got around to making my bed. I hated my room.

Then I read something somewhere, about how your bedroom should be a restful oasis. The author even advocated that there should be no photographs or book shelves to intrude. Just clean, comfortable, spaces. I tried the no photo/book thing for awhile, and decided a few small photos and piles of books did not detract from my restful state...so I put them back. But I learned my lesson about the distracting, stress and guilt inducing clutter. And about putting my room first. Amazingly enough, when I made time to clean up my own space, I was more inclined to keep after the other spaces. But above all else, if the other spaces (or people) got overwhelming, I always had a refuge to retreat into.

To be honest, I could cheerfully make my room with nothing more than a mattress on the floor, and piles of books, but over time I have collected bits and pieces that make me happy. We sleep on my great-grand's antique bed, and I lay there and wonder who may have been born or died in it. There's an antique shelf that came from a barn we once owned. Most of the furnishings have been collected over the years, from consignment shops and yard sales. The accessories are gifts. I made curtains, and covers, and pillow cases. The books just find me. I say all of this because you need not break the bank "decorating". Cleanliness and order add grace and beauty to any space. Take time to actually live in it, and decide what you would really like to have, and then wait for it to come to you. When you know what will be just right, you will come across it and know. Don't worry if you have to wait some time. It will be worth it.

One final note. Always look on your closet and bathroom as extensions of your bedroom. Keep them with the same care and attention as your sleeping space. My closet has a place for everything, and so I always put it back in its place, and I never lose anything in there, though it is a cramped, wretched little space. I rarely leave my bathroom without picking up any misplaced item and putting it away. Consequently, it never takes more than a moment to make it perfect. I scrub the whole thing down only weekly, with little touch ups as needed, and it never gets too horrible. But the cupboard is always tidy, the trash emptied each day, and everything is in its place. Lest you are picturing a luxurious master bath, let me say no. Picture a postage stamp, that I share with Beloved Husband, Hippie Boy, and Baby Boy. Make no mistake, I am not whining about my small bedroom, smaller bathroom, or teeny closet. I have come to love them, as I have worked hard to make them work for me. It takes time, thought, and work...and it is so worth it.

The Holiday Mess

2010-12-29T16:21:00.003-05:00

'Tis the season for many things, and from what I gather, one of those things is despairing over the chaos and mess inside one's home. I am not picking on any of my dear friends. This is a theme I hear, read, and even see commented upon in Facebook photos of Christmas carnage. I think there are several issues in play. Let me enumerate, in list form, because I loooove lists.

The holidays are a busy time, thus we have less time to devote to cleaning and organizing.
The children are everywhere, all the time.
We tend to have company, which also adds to the chaos.
There are piles of presents to and from loved ones, plus wrappings galore.
We also engage in other messy projects like baking, cooking, writing cards, etc. This equals projects spread about our spaces.
It's wintertime, which means coats and snow pants, boots and hats, mittens and scarves.
It's wintertime which means being cooped up inside four walls a lot.
Did I mention the kids are on vacation and are underfoot all.the.time?

This can lead to ugliness, I am here to tell you. It may mean you find yourself laying on your bed having a good cry instead of a long winter nap. It may mean you see this transformation from "carefully and lovingly chosen gifts" to "all this crap overrunning my house". It may mean you end up yelling at those children that are in the house, under your feet...did I already say this? ALL THE TIME.

Now I don't mean to gloat, because I have had my share of trials this past week (not limited to a poodle who tried to kill herself with fudge, and the resulting mess and vet bills), but I think after twenty-four years of marriage, I am finally getting the hang of this thing. My house is fairly orderly, even in the midst of the holiday hustle and bustle, and I don't feel superior. I feel relieved. The hard work and discipline is all worth it.

If you are a person who makes New Year resolutions, and sincerely means to follow through... if you are a person who chafes against the structure needed to whip your house into order, yet hates the chaos too... let me encourage you to stop rebelling against your own best interests. Button yourself down to the task of setting things in order, and discipline yourself to make new habits. Force structure upon your reluctant self. Your weary self will thank you all through the New Year.

By all means, if you are completely happy and relaxed in relative disorder, don't let me boss you around. I actually have secret envy for people who don't feel the need to alphabetize their DVDs or organize their sock drawer by style and color. I've had friends gently tell me, "They have medication for that." But when all is said and done, my sock drawer makes ME happy. I have no desire to mandate sock drawer protocol, or judge you for tossing them all in a basket, unmatched no less. It's about comfort level. And I'm hearing a lot of people saying their houses are making them very uncomfortable right now.

A lot of people look at me, and they think, "Oh well of course. You are THAT SORT of person." You know, the person who is super organized, always thinking and planning ahead, scheduling and making lists. But I wasn't always like this. It has taken years of practice, and mostly self discipline, to transform myself and my thinking. In the past I thought of myself as a creative person, thus excusing my creative "stuff" being scattered all over our living spaces. I also used this excuse to "create" during times that I should have been caring for my children, cooking meals, and generally keeping up my home. I would always, always choose a good book over my domestic duties. This was before the days of computers, with email and Facebook and blogs. Thank goodness, I might never have come up for air.

We also had young children. I homeschooled, and had school "stuff" everywhere. I crafted and sewed, and cooked and baked. We had small spaces and a small income. All of this is to say, I hear you. I hear every excuse you are spitting at the screen right now. They are all the reasons I fought getting organized myself. But in the end, it was the most gentle, kind, loving thing I have done for myself. Yes, for me. It isn't drudgery and the death of my creativity. It has been freeing, the lifting of a huge weight. I have slowly found ways to pour my creativity into the process, and I do it with my own sense of style. The careful keeping of my home and family employs all my imagination and personality. I enjoy it, and I'm not ashamed to say so... though I do get some funny looks at times.

Check back in the next few days, and I'll share a few ideas that have been extremely helpful to me. It's too big a subject to address in one post. There are great books and websites devoted to the subject. I'll be sharing the ideas that really made huge changes for me. The important thing is finding the ideas that resonate with you, and implementing them to improve the quality of your life.

Why I Go to Church, Part 2

2010-12-15T16:16:00.009-05:00

In my last post I was thinking aloud about the church. I said a bit about kitchens and bathrooms, that probably would sound pretty funny out of context. I also said I would get back to my thoughts about the church building and its important function. I will say again that people are the core of the church. All Christians are connected, whether they want to believe it or not, all part of the Body of Christ, all "the church". No particular building houses God, or any object that gives us a direct line to Him. But today I am going to discuss the local church building, the individual group of people that gathers there, and some of the reasons we show up on a Sunday morning.

I'm going back to my bathroom analogy, not that it's perfect, but it works for me. I said that relationships with people are the kitchen. Sometimes hot, sometimes messy, sometimes frustrating and even a little dangerous. But it's where you get fed when you are hungry. When people are needy, they need other people. Even when they aren't in a particularly needy place, they still need people. The Bible teaches us that the way people get fed, and clothed, and cared for rests on what people do. It's true that God can do miraculous things, and it's true that all good things ultimately come from God's hand. I believe that. But God has never physically cooked me a meal, taken me shopping and bought me underwear, carried out the trash, or given me a hug. God has always used the bodies of living people to do those things for me.

The problem, in my humble opinion, is setting up shop in the kitchen. People are awesome. They are the very best gift God has created on this earth for us people. The Bible tells us that they aren't just awesome, they are made in God's image. I can't even begin to see what that means...but I am certain it means something really good. We have something in us that is like God. It is so easy to fall in love with people, and spend our lives pouring ourselves out for them, and soaking up the awesomeness of them, that we could forget God altogether. To continue with my analogy, we might be tempted to sit around that big ol' kitchen table, warm and full, and with a contented sigh say, "It doesn't get any better than this."

Can I take a small rabbit trail here? When I was growing up, I was taught that Jesus was THE WAY. I was further taught, that anybody who wasn't living this reality was miserably unhappy. Of course they were probably sinful and bad too. If they didn't look miserably unhappy, and sinful and bad...well, they were just really good actors. Except I knew people who were not Christians, and they were genuinely moral, compassionate people. They seemed happy. They didn't seem like they were faking it. I just could not make sense of this. I think my kitchen theory might account for this. To be honest, I have been tempted at times, to discard everything else in favor of the kitchen.

So if people are what it's all about, and the church is really just people, why not discard the church building, and start hanging out in some awesome person's kitchen? Why not throw away the whole rest of the house, and just make one huge kitchen? Well, partly because I will not buy a house that doesn't have a bathroom. Call me American, but I do love me some white porcelain fixtures. I like the fact that I can go into that quiet room, all by myself, and take care of my private business. I can dispose of waste, that isn't good for me to hold onto either inside or outside my body. A quick flush of water and it's gone. I can wash up in the sink if I'm only partially dirty, or I can take a shower or a tubby if I need a total cleanup. Don't get me wrong. I don't want to live in the bathroom, but I need and want to visit the bathroom with regularity.

Maybe it's a bit irreverent to liken the church building we visit each Sunday to the bathroom. I'm going to take a chance on it. Think about it for a moment. Why do we go to church in the first place? Let me preface my answer with a list of all the reason I do NOT believe we should go to church on a Sunday morning. I do not believe we go to church to get things. One of the biggies that I hear all sorts of rumblings about is "fellowship". And what most people mean by this is socializing. I love to socialize. I love food and coffee. But if I couldn't get any of it, I'd still go to church. I do not go to church to get feelings, blessings, fillings up, etc. Sometimes it happens, and it's nice no doubt. I don't go to church for teaching. I really appreciate a good sermon. I even appreciate a bad sermon that a pastor has clearly labored over. But if there was no sermon, I wouldn't feel as though the filling was left out of my sandwich. I don't go to church to be entertained. I don't have the right to critique anyone's "performance". I don't have the right to decide if the room is too bright, warm, clean enough for my liking. I don't go to church to judge or be judged by other people, whether they are in the pew next to me, or at home sleeping in.

For me, going to church is somewhat paradoxical. I go to be part of something that is communal in nature, yet it is solitary as well. In the kitchen we are shoulder to shoulder, and face to face. In the pew we are all facing toward something other than ourselves. We come to church to worship, which is kind of an alien concept in itself. I read some definitions, and it all seemed to boil down to a sort of adoration for something that is elevated far above us. It is very true that we can worship privately. Nature can cause us to spontaneously worship. Private devotion and prayer can lead us to worship. Communal worship is just downright hard for me.

Think about the rituals we observe. Confession. I sit next to my neighbor, and I confess that I have sinned against God in thought, word, and deed. I have not loved my neighbor. Yes, that person sitting next to me. I have been negligent. I have not done the things that I know I ought to do, yet amazingly I have found time to do things I know I shouldn't do. Communion. I sit quietly and examine myself. I find myself sadly deficient. "This is My body, broken for you... this is my blood, shed for the remission of your sins..." These are not comfortable thoughts and actions. If I could avoid them and remain in the kitchen, it would be more to my liking.

But I need to take my waste somewhere. I need to clean up sometime. I'd prefer to do it in private, behind closed doors. Experience teaches me, it is better for me to do it quietly beside my brothers and sisters. In a sense it is private. In a sense it is communal. In every sense it should humble me. If there is a humble room in our homes, I would say it is the bathroom. If there is an actual, real, literal humble place to go to in our faith, it should be our church building.

Going to church should empty us out, make us cleaner and freer. When I am cleaner and freer, the songs I sing feel more uplifting, my prayers feel as though they soar straight to God's ear, and I feel so much more love for my neighbor. God makes me this beautiful gift of feeling, even when I come dragging my feet (and my feelings) sometimes. Most times. It is alien and mystical. It's probably a whole lot better than a bathroom.

Why I Go to Church, Part 1

2010-12-14T09:02:00.006-05:00

I've been thinking lately, about some things that I've read, or heard said, about how the church "does charity". Now this is a pretty broad subject, since there are all sorts of churches and parachurch organizations that administer charity. When I say charity, the verses in Matthew 25 come to my mind.

"For I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me."

I hear a lot of people complaining about how the church deals with the hungry, the stranger, the naked, the sick, the imprisoned. Sometimes the complaints are directed at the institution of the church, and sometimes at the individual members. And heaven help us, many of the complaints are completely valid.

There's an old Keith Green album from the seventies that rolls two songs, one into the next. The first is a dramatic retelling of the above passage of scripture, concluding with the thought that the only difference between the sheep and the goats (righteous and unrighteous) is what they "did and didn't do". It rolls directly into the song "Asleep in the Light", which describes a church paralyzed by its own prosperity.

"Oh bless me Lord, bless me Lord!"
You know it's all I ever hear.
No one aches, no one hurts,
No one even sheds one tear,

But He cries, He weeps, He bleeds,
And He cares for your needs,
And you just lay back
And keep soaking it in.
Oh, can't you see it's such a sin?

'Cause He brings people to your door,
And you turn them away
As you smile and say,
"God bless you, be at peace"
And all heaven just weeps
'Cause Jesus came to your door.
You've left him out on the streets.

Heaven help us if this is how we do charity. I have heard the cries of people who have been turned away at the door by people who say "God bless you, be at peace, and here's the numbers of some government agencies that might be able to help you". I have heard the cries of people who have been turned away at the door by people who say, "God bless you, be at peace, come back at Christmas and we'll have a toy for your baby and a holiday food box." I have heard the cries of people who have been turned away at the door by people who say "God will bless you and give you peace, but only after you clean up the mess that is your life."

The church, as an institution could do better, but we need to cut the church some slack. It is an awkward thing, trying to administer charity to strangers through the church as an institution. The government does it, and maybe does it better. The government has programs that we are compelled to fund through our tax dollars. The government expects to be defrauded. They set up all sorts of protocols for a needy person, to prove that they are indeed needy. The American tax payer does not expect the government to be frivolously handing out cash and goods to anyone who has their hand out. They expect the government to screen people, and determine if their need is real. And so needy people are served, and still the government is defrauded as well.

The church sits in the shadow of the government. No one is compelled to fund the church. People always talk about how all the church ever does is scrounge for money. I have been in the church for my entire life, and I have never experienced this. If anything, I have often heard the church apologetically asking for money to fund worthy endeavors. People give, and proportionally, the people with the least give the most. The church as an institution holds that gift carefully, and labors over where it will be best used...where it will best serve to feed, clothe, heal, and comfort. In fear of being defrauded, perhaps we guard the gift too closely. Do we become the man who buries his talents in the ground, for fear of being robbed? In fear of enabling the very behaviors that cast people into poverty of body and spirit, we are afraid to give liberally. In fear of being impoverished ourselves, we hang onto the lion's share to feed our own.

This is the struggle of the church as an institution. We have this idea that if we find ourselves cast upon hard times, we can find a church door, and knock there. Maybe we can find help. The reality is, you will probably find the door locked. If you are lucky, you will find a friendly pastor or priest, and they may be able to offer some suggestions and assistance. They will invite you to come back and worship together with their congregation. They will express an interest in getting to know you. This will feel weird and invasive, like there is a price to be paid for help, or a screening process to determine whether you are deserving. If the pastor shares your situation with the congregation, it will be awkward. People will treat you like you are special, but it will feel forced and strange. If the pastor does not share your situation, it will be awkward as well. People will treat you like nobody special, and you will feel hurt because they didn't see your need and minister to it.

I think it's kind of like being hungry, and going to the bathroom looking for food. Over and over, you feel the hunger pains, and you get up and trot to the bathroom for a snack. But there's no food to be found. There's water and a cup. That helps. There's vitamins in the cabinet. That helps too. There are magazines on the back of the toilet. Some of them even have pictures of food in them, and recipes for how to prepare it. But no matter how often you head to the bathroom, you still end up hungry.

I think that going to a church building when you are in need, is like going to the bathroom when you are hungry. It's not really what it's there for. The church building has her own purposes, and I'll return to that another day. I don't want anyone to think I'm saying that the church building is useless, or cold, or empty. I just want to spend this post sending hungry people to the kitchen.

The kitchen is people. The kitchen is community. The kitchen is relationship. The kitchen is also the church, but it can exist with or without a building, a pastor, or even a Bible. Not that it throws these things away. They are good and necessary things that help the church grow...but if it has to, it can live and even grow without them. But without people, the church is dead. The church can have a beautiful building, a well trained staff, and shelves full of Bibles and hymnals...but without living breathing people in relationship with one another, it's dying.

Oh, but the kitchen is a sloppy place. It gets uncomfortably hot at times, especially when something is cooking. The sink is full of dirty dishes, and the counters are covered with crumbs. The cooks bustle and squabble, sometimes self important in their aprons. Sometimes they yell at you to get out of the way if you're not doing anything useful. The kitchen can be a scary place, with knives and hot pans. The kitchen can be a wonderful place, full of delicious smells, and happy chatter. The kitchen is people, and it feeds you.

I think that when people come to a church building, genuinely searching for help, they are often let down. Because when people come searching for food and drink, clothing and warmth, healing and human companionship...they are searching for relationship. And when we tell people that God loves them, that He will meet all their needs, that He is the solution to all their problems...we're speaking the truth. But if we don't speak it from the context of a genuine relationship, it sounds like "God bless you, be at peace" as we turn them away from the church door, still cold and hungry.

I don't pretend to know the answers. The physical church building is often the most visible representation of the church body in the community. It is natural that people in need would want to see that steeple as a beacon. In the old stories, people left babies in baskets on church doorsteps. Is this because somehow, magically, the church building itself would save the child? No. The hope was that the presence of the church building indicated the presence of a community of people that were knit together in love. Such a community of people might take in a stranger's baby, and bring them up in that environment of love.

I think babies on church doorsteps are mostly confined to feel-good fiction. The reality was the same then as it is now. The church doors were locked for the night, and everyone was gone home to their own families and firesides. Baby would freeze on the doorstep of the church. If you didn't know of a warm, welcoming kitchen somewhere, you were out in the cold for the night. In other words, if you didn't have genuine relationships, and you found yourself in need, you had few options. I guess what I'm getting at, is that some of us need to stop checking the church doorstep for baskets, and start checking our own back porch. And some of us lingering on the church doorstep, need to find the kitchen and ask to come in. Maybe you're hungry. Maybe you know a bit about cooking. Maybe you can help with the dishes. On a cold night, we might all be surprised to see who gathers around the table.

How to Sing the Blues

2010-12-04T09:45:00.002-05:00

I found this on Dee's blog and it made me laugh out loud. Enjoy.

1. Most Blues begin, “Woke up this morning.”

2. “I got a good woman” is a bad way to begin the Blues, ‘less you stick something nasty in the next line, like “I got a good woman, with the meanest face in town.”

3. The Blues is simple. After you get the first line right, repeat it. Then find something that rhymes … sort of: “Got a good woman – with the meanest face in town. Got teeth like Mick Jagger – and she weigh 500 pound.”

4. The Blues are not about choice. You stuck in a ditch, you stuck in a ditch; ain’t no way out.

5. Blues cars: Chevys and Cadillacs and broken-down trucks. Blues don’t travel in Volvos, BMWs, or Sport Utility Vehicles. Most Blues transportation is a Greyhound bus or a southbound train. Jet aircraft an’ state-sponsored motor pools ain’t even in the running. Walkin’ plays a major part in the blues lifestyle. So does fixin’ to die.

6. Teenagers can’t sing the Blues. They ain’t fixin’ to die yet. Adults sing the Blues. In Blues, “adulthood” means being old enough to get the electric chair if you shoot a man in Memphis.

7. Blues can take place in New York City but not in Hawaii or any place in Canada. Hard times in St. Paul or Tucson is just depression. Chicago, St.Louis, and Kansas City still the best places to have the Blues. You cannot have the blues in any place that don’t get rain.

8. A man with male pattern baldness ain’t the blues. A woman with male pattern baldness is. Breaking your leg cuz you skiing is not the blues. Breaking your leg cuz an alligator be chomping on it is.

9. You can’t have no Blues in an office or a shopping mall. The lighting is wrong. Go outside to the parking lot or sit by the dumpster.

10. Good places for the Blues:

a. highway
b. jailhouse
c. empty bed
d. bottom of a whiskey glass

Bad places:

a. Ashrams
b. gallery openings
c. Ivy League institutions
d. golf courses

11. No one will believe it’s the Blues if you wear a suit, ‘less you happen to be an old ethnic person, and you slept in it.

12. Do you have the right to sing the Blues? Yes, if:

a. you’re older than dirt
b. you’re blind
c. you shot a man in Memphis
d. you can’t be satisfied

No, if:

a. you have all your teeth
b. you were once blind but now can see
c. the man in Memphis lived.
d. you have a retirement plan or trust fund.

13. Blues is not a matter of color. It’s a matter of bad luck. Tiger Woods can now can sing the blues. Gary Coleman could. Ugly people automatically get to sing the blues.

14. If you ask for water and Baby give you gasoline, it’s the Blues. Other acceptable Blues beverages are:

a. wine
b. whiskey or bourbon
c. muddy water
d. black coffee

The following are NOT Blues beverages:

a. mixed drinks
b. Red Bull
c. Snapple
d. sparkling water

15. If it occurs in a cheap motel or a shotgun shack, it’s a Blues death. Stabbed in the back by a jealous lover is another Blues way to die. So is the electric chair, substance abuse, and dying lonely on a broken down cot. You can’t have a Blues death if you die during a tennis match or while getting liposuction.

16. Some Blues names for women:

a. Sadie
b. Big Mama
c. Bessie
d. Fat River Dumpling

17. Some Blues names for men:

a. Joe
b. Willie
c. Little Willie
d. Big Willie

18. Persons with names like Sierra, Sequoia, Auburn, and Rainbow can’t sing the Blues no matter how many men they shoot in Memphis.

19. Make your own Blues name (starter kit):

a. name of physical infirmity (Blind, Cripple, Lame, etc.)
b. first name (see above) plus name of fruit (Lemon, Lime,
Kiwi, etc.)
c. last name of President (Jefferson, Johnson, Fillmore,
etc.)

For example, Blind Lime Jefferson, or Cripple Kiwi Fillmore, etc.
(Well, maybe not “Kiwi.”)

20. I don’t care how tragic your life: you own a computer, you cannot sing the blues. You best destroy it. Fire, a spilled bottle of Mad Dog, or get out a shotgun. Maybe your big woman just done sat on it. I don’t care.

[Dang, and I had the perfect blues name picked out: Exzema Pear Cleveland...]

Adoption Sunday

2010-11-07T16:10:00.003-05:00

This is the speech that we were privileged to share with our congregation today.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,
We are honored to speak to you today, about a subject that is very dear to our hearts. This month, November, is set aside as National Adoption Month, and many churches will recognize this today by observing Orphan Sunday. Many of you have supported our family in our adoption journey, and for that we are very grateful. Today we wish to challenge each of you to think about how God may be calling you to minister to orphans. Scripture teaches that each of us is required to minister to the weak and the fatherless, in their need. It is not optional, and it is not easy.

It would be very easy to make this time into an advertisement for adoption. We could tell you many heart warming and inspiring stories, and most of them would be true. Instead, we want to talk about some of the hard truths concerning orphans. Worldwide it is estimated that there are between 140 and 210 million orphans, but it is hard to tell, because only a fraction are being counted or cared for. I have read that less than one percent of these children have the hope of being adopted.

In America, if you are a healthy infant, you will certainly be adopted. There are waiting lists of qualified folks wanting to adopt these children. This is a necessary and worthy endeavor, which has its own joys and challenges, but we are not here to speak of these children today. In America we have orphans as well. They are the 114,000 foster children who are legally freed for adoption. Their family ties have been severed , and they are wards of the state. The average child in foster care is not an infant, and there is no waiting list to adopt him. He is eight, maybe nine or ten years old, a boy, African American. He may have siblings that need to be adopted with him, or that he wishes to remain close to. He will wait, on average, four and a half years to be adopted. He has suffered trauma and loss, and his attitudes and behaviors reflect this.

You will encounter this child's face in books of child profiles, or on photolistings on the internet. He will smile out at you and grab your heart. His profile will tell you that he loves fried chicken and football. That he works hard in school, and enjoys drawing and listening to music. It will probably not even hint at the truth about this child. This child was removed from his birth family because of horrible tragedy. No suitable family member or person acquainted with this child stepped forward to take him in. He is probably living in a different home than his brothers and sisters, and is lucky to see them once every few months. While in care, he has probably moved several times, having to adjust to new caregivers, homes, and schools. It is a certainty that he has experienced more trauma and abuse since he entered the system. Now he is being marketed to waiting adoptive families.

Russell D. Moore says: "As much as we might not want to admit it, many of us don’t think much about orphans because, frankly, we’re scared of them. Orphans are unpredictable. Often we don’t know where they’ve come from, what kind of genetic maladies and urges lie dormant somewhere in those genes. Moreover, in virtually every situation of fatherlessness, there is some kind of tragedy: a divorce, a suicide, a rape, a drug overdose, a disease, a drought, a civil war, and on and on. We’d rather not think about such things, and we’re afraid often of what kind of lasting mark they leave on their victims."

Many of us don't think much about orphans. Even when people do think about orphans, they often think wrongly about them. People want heart warming stories about families being formed, but adoption of orphans is also about heart wrenching stories of families being torn apart. We want to celebrate adoption because it is a win/win situation. Children without families are being given homes and families. But adoption of orphans is also about tremendous loss. The children already know this, but if the adoptive families don't know it, they'll be finding out soon.

When children are very young, even before they are born, the groundwork for who they will become is being laid. Each time a child is cared for, soothed, kept safe from harm, they are being shaped. When children are cared for consistently through childhood by the same one or two people, they are being shaped. When they are held, sung to, played with, read to...their brains are being shaped. They are receiving messages that the world is a good place, that they are valued, that they are safe. Without any thought at all, trust is formed and cemented.

When children are very young, even before they are born, and their environment is chaotic and unpredictable, likewise a foundation is being laid. When children are neglected and ignored, they are being shaped. When they are surrounded by violence and anger, they are being shaped. When they have changing caregivers, and cannot attach to any one person, their brains are being shaped. They are receiving messages that the world is a scary place, that they are unimportant, and that they must keep themselves safe at any cost.

Children, even children of trauma, are smart and adaptive. Over time, most children will develop a highly effective set of coping skills to help them navigate and survive foster care, orphanages, tent cities, the streets. It is not enough to want to help. You cannot transplant this child into your loving home, give them a cute bedroom and a closet full of toys and clothes, and tell them they are safe and loved. There are dozens of ways different children react, but almost certainly it will not be with gratitude, and reciprocal love and mutual respect.

You might find it surprising to know that no matter how awful a place this child might come from, they will miss it. They will miss their absent parents, and past caregivers. It does not matter if they can remember them. It does not matter if they were ignored by them. It does not matter if they were abused by them. They may be angry at you for taking them away from that place and those people, even if it happened long before they met you.

You might find it surprising to know that this child will be afraid of you. In the beginning you won't know, because you won't know what afraid looks like in your child. But later, much later, you will look at photos of the early days, and you'll see it. The photos will be of celebration, and you will realize your child was afraid.

The fact is, many things will surprise you, even if you read lots of books, and take classes, and pick the brains of every adoptive parent you know. Knowing what may happen, knowing what will happen, is not the same as having it happen to you and your family. Planning out how you think you will react and feel, is not the same as living through it. You may be ashamed to discover you are not half the person you thought you were. You may be shocked to discover how much you need to change to make this new relationship work.

Orphans are hurting people. The world is full of hurting people, and being an instrument of healing is something we should pray to be. When we pray, we should know how much it may cost us. My dear friend, and fellow adoptive parent, Christine Moers writes "I ask you to converse with God and determine if you are ready right now to parent one of these children. If not, what will it take for you to get to that point? How does God need to work you over?" If you feel God pulling you toward older child adoption, I would say, why not let Him start working you over right now?

Not everyone is called to adoption. Many will sincerely think it through, and come to the conclusion that God has not equipped their family to adopt. But you can support families who do choose this path. Above all else, adoptive families need to be upheld in your prayers. From the moment a family begins to fill out the paperwork, adoption is a stressful, costly, invasive process. If you have ever welcomed a child through birth, think of a long hard pregnancy with no due date in sight. Pray these children home, as there are endless obstacles and setbacks along the way.

Rejoice with adoptive families as they prepare to welcome children into their homes. Observe the same rituals that you would observe if a family was expecting a child by birth. Parties and showers are wonderful ways to celebrate, and help families provide for the needs of their new child or children. Let the family take the lead about how this is best done. Children from institutional care need simple, small lives when they arrive in a family. This may mean that showering the family with lots of material goods is not actually a good thing. Combining monetary gifts to buy one or two larger items, or to purchase a gift card for future use, may be a better plan. It is hard for families to know in advance, all that their child may need in the early months at home. Do not give in to the temptation to wait until the child is home to have a party, so that they can be included in the festivities. This celebration is for the waiting family, and will likely be be difficult for a newly placed child to process. Likewise, do not create public welcome ceremonies for older adopted children. This puts already stressed children on the spot. Instead, wait for quiet, appropriate times to say, "Hello. I'm glad you're here."

When the children finally do come home, allow families to take a period of time away. I realize that people are naturally curious and excited to meet the new child, but adoptive families need weeks, even months of quiet family time to allow their new family to begin to bond and adjust. Families may come into church late, and leave during the last hymn, because they realize this is all their child can handle for a time. Realize that much like the parents cooped up at home with a newborn, this family misses their church family. They are isolated, and often exhausted. They need for you to keep up contact. Call on the telephone, send emails and cards. Set up a rotation of meals, and have them delivered by someone who won't be tempted to stay and visit. Ask if the family would appreciate a visit after the children are in bed asleep, or offer to come stay with sleeping children so Dad and Mom can slip out for a late night cup of coffee.

It is natural that this feels strange. So often, when a young couple is expecting a child, our reaction is to say, "Oh, I just can't wait to get my hands on that baby." All the focus is on the beautiful new baby. With older child adoption, it is easy to see the beautiful baby, and the first reaction is to want to shower the child with affection and attention. The child may seem chatty and affectionate...may even run to you and hug you, or climb into your lap. This is an unhealthy behavior of an unattached child. Children learn quickly that the cutest, most charming child, often gets the lion's share of everything. If you do not have an intimate relationship with the child, it is best to gently redirect them back to the parents. Always direct them back to their parents.

These are just a few suggestions of simple things that can be done before and shortly after a child arrives. Truly, books could be written on the subject. But if I would leave you with any enduring message today, it would be this. Adoptive families of older, traumatized children are not like the other families in your parish, and these families are committing to a lifetime of being very, very different. It would be easy to understand this in terms of troubled children struggling to integrate into families, of weary adoptive parents dealing with years of rejection and difficult behaviors... and at times it can look exactly like this. But that would be unfair, and would not properly honor our children.

Every day we ask our children to move mountains to achieve healing. Our mental hospitals and prisons are filled with adults whose histories mirror that of our children, and yet we demand that they rise up out of their apathy, overcome their fear, and let go of their very justifiable anger. We ask them to make themselves vulnerable, when they have been hurt so many times before. We ask them to trust, when they have been let down time and again. It boggles the mind, to consider what we are asking of them, and in the light of this our sacrifices and struggles must also be very great. This is why God must work us over to prepare us. You must be willing to ask yourself, What am I unwilling to give? and know that it will be required of you.

Many of you may say today, "I didn't know this, then. Now it is too late. Your family is moving beyond this stage of need, and I didn't know then how to help." Don't worry. In this room, I am confident that there are other families, who God has already begun to work over. In time, they will adopt orphans, and we will all have the privilege of supporting them in their ministry. Even a few of us, who move well beyond the years of child bearing age, may realize that God calls us to be adoptive parents to young orphans nearing adulthood. Children aging out of foster care at 17 and 18 years of age, are still placing themselves on photolistings, hoping against hope that they will find a family for life. How cold is the world for an 18 year old, with no one to advise them, no home to return to for holidays, no grandparent to hold their babies? This is the sad reality for 30 thousand young people who will age out of the foster care system this year in this country.

We can only speak for our own family, but I believe in this Godly community, that it must be so, that good Christian men and women will rise to the occasion. That being said, let us be the first to announce the adoption of the next member of our family. Her name is "S" (for bloggy purposes), and she will be five years old this month. Right now she is in a wonderful medical foster home, and we have been caught in a waiting pattern for several months. The wheels of the adoption bureaucracy move very slowly. We ask that you please pray our new family member home. Pray that the appropriate approvals and paperwork come through. Pray that the money comes through. Pray that her health remains stable, and that we are able to line up excellent health care in advance of her arrival. Pray for our family, as we prepare to take on this new challenge. And pray that this is only the first such announcement in our parish.

I'll Fly Away, Oh Glory....

2010-10-27T10:28:00.009-05:00

Last weekend I flew away, for the second time in less than a year. The first time was to Orlando, and if you want to read all about it, Corey is pretty good about keeping it on the front burner. When I came home I tried several times to blog about it, but nothing I wrote could begin to explain what we had all experienced there. I could tell about the nervousness of doing something dangerous, of flying away to meet people I only knew of in cyberspace. I could tell of the childlike joy we all felt as we explored our villa, or jumped hand in hand into an icy pool. I could tell of a dinner prepared by loving hands, and an unfolding of selves around a big table. I could tell of the laughter and tears, and the giant burning pain of parting. But it wouldn't be enough. It would only scratch the surface of what happened in Orlando.

But I can tell you about what did not happen in Orlando. A group of women did not get together to try and impress one another. A group of women did not get together and create a pecking order. A group of women did not get together and piss and moan about their spouses, children, or hard lives. Sure, we shared our struggles and frustrations, but through it all, every woman was expressing her complete commitment to the life path she had chosen. Even those who were struggling mightily, expressed profound gratitude for their partners and families.

If I had to tell you the message of Orlando, first I would have to climb to the rooftop. From there I would shout, "You are not alone!" You may feel alone, but it is a lie. Your sisters have been scattered, but you can find them if you try.

This past weekend I flew away to Texas, to a reunion of sorts. Six of the original nine traveled from around the country, to camp out on the living room floor. Though there were only six beds, there were nine spirits present. Life is life, and one can't always pack up and run away to Texas. And again, I am at a loss for words. I could tell you about the joy at seeing now familiar faces. I could tell you about talking deep into the night, playing games, eating and drinking far too much. But I would again, be scratching the surface of the thing.

This time we did not talk of our families, our children, our common bonds...not so much anyhow. We spoke of ourselves more often, of our unique histories, and thoughts, and dreams. We discovered how different we are, and most surprisingly, how very much the same. The wonder of Orlando remained, but here also an ease that I had not felt before. If the shouted message of Orlando was, "You are not alone", then the message of Gonzales was a sigh and a whisper, "Yes. I am not alone."

We spoke of how it builds us up and fills us. We, who taste discouragement every day, know that we are winning. It may not feel like winning, but we are winning. In general, Gonzales whispers, but if it shouts anything it all, it is "I want to be more than I am. I will not give up."

Beautiful airplanes, fly me home. I would rather be there than anywhere. But fly me away once in awhile, to Orlando, and Gonzales, and any other place my sisters are.

SPD meets FASD

2010-10-19T17:07:00.003-05:00

So we've had a flooded bathroom for months. It was no mystery who was flooding it. First it was gallons of water, requiring major cleanup and repairs. Lately it's been a slow trickle, causing a spongy floor and a rotting smell. Every day that I went into the bathroom to check the floor before and after my daughter's shower, the floor would be perfectly dry. Every day that I did not check until later, the floor would be mysteriously wet.

I'm not stupid. I know better than to ask outright, "Are you getting the floor wet? How are you getting the floor wet? Why are you getting the floor wet?" If I've learned nothing more in four years of parenting this child, it is simply to proceed directly to banging my head against the wall.

But sometimes we can listen for tiny nuggets of information. Over the course of many weeks we can ask odd, sideways questions, and finally piece it all together. Like how my daughter has developed a new way of showering. She gets in and turns on the water. It's very cold, so she lets it run at a trickle, which causes it to run along the pipe and land on the ledge around the top of the shower surround. This chilly water then runs along the ledge, down the front edge of the shower, and onto the floor. When the water warms up she turns it up, and for the rest of her shower it doesn't leak.

Why does she do this you (or I) may ask? She shrugs. I ask, "Doesn't the cold water feel bad?" Yes. She shows me how she huddles in the corner of the shower, out of the way of the cold spray. "So why do it this way?" Because she likes the way it feels when the water warms up.

My daughter is perpetually doing things like this, which make no sense to anyone else. Out of nowhere, she will create her own special way to shower, set the table, do long division. These new methods are NEVER improvements on the old ones. But this does not deter her. In fact, it's almost like her mind rewrites the new method over the old one, so that she seems not to remember how to do things the old way, or how long she has been doing it the new way.

When I asked her how long she had been showering this way, she told me this was how she always showered. But as we took things apart historically, we were able to determine that she had begun using this new method sometime over the summer, and that before that, she had showered like the rest of us, without flooding the bathroom. In fact, when I was policing the bathroom at shower time, she could force herself to shower like the rest of us, turning the faucets on ahead of time, and stepping into an already warm stream of water.

It's not really such a big deal to check the floor before and after her shower. But she also has her own special way of using the toilet. I'm not sure how it goes exactly, but it involves huge amounts of TP and occasional plumbing issues. Now that she's out of the shower, she's back on the toilet, er, so to speak. All I can say, is, thank goodness I don't have to share a bathroom with her.

Comfort in Words

2010-09-29T19:38:00.014-05:00

There is great comfort in words, whether it be the kind words of a friend, the lyrics of a song that stay within you and resonate, or the words of an excellent story. I am a person who loves words. I would rather have a word to carry with me into the dark night, than pretty much anything else. Words are like food, and I hunger for them, and search them out like choice morsels. So often, words form a chain, from the lips of a friend, to a song we heard, to the written page... all the same necessary message.

A few years ago I decided to read Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Trilogy. I had started it several times, always stalling in the first hundred pages or so. This time I would persevere, and read the entire story. I remember reading passages, and feeling the story crawl under my skin. It describes a time, early in Frodo's journey, when he begins to realize what he has undertaken, and the horrible danger of it. It goes:

They stood for awhile silent on the hill-top, near its southward edge. In that lonely place Frodo for the first time fully realized his homelessness and danger. He wished bitterly that his fortune had left him in the quiet and beloved Shire. He stared down at the hateful Road, leading back westward--to his home. Suddenly he was aware that two black specks were moving slowly along it, going westward; and looking again he saw that three others were creeping eastward to meet them.

Those black specks were of course the black riders, out to seek his life and to end his mission. There was of course, no safe road home. The words of this passage resonated in me, at a time when I realized that I had chosen a road that was fraught with danger and difficulty. One day, like Frodo, I had found myself looking back on the road I had recently traveled, and I realized that I found the sight of that road hateful to me. I hated the road for bringing me so far from all I held dear, and familiar, and comfortable. As I gazed backward from my imaginary high ground, I saw that the road home was fraught with danger, and that going backward was no longer a safe option. I knew that my only option was to press forward, though it seemed unlikely that this option would prove safe either. In that instant, I truly did hate the road for carrying me anywhere at all, and for making me so weary and worn. Perhaps I am a bit hobbit-like at heart.

Recently I came upon a song, in a rather roundabout way. A friend posted a link to a video, that touched my heart, but also made me search for this album. I actually purchased it, something I have not done in years. When it arrived in the mail, I put it into my CD player, and lay down on the floor, and listened to the songs. I still found that I loved the original song I had first heard, and liked all of the others. But one song spoke to me at a fundamental level. It is a song called "The Long Defeat", and if I could send you to a link of it, I would. I can only find it in its entirety in one place, and it's set as background music to a home made TV show trailer, and the video really detracts from the song.

OK. I promise I'm going somewhere on this rabbit trail. I was reading the info about the song, and I saw that its title had come from a quote by Paul Farmer. In his biography written by Tracy Kidder, he is quoted as saying:

I have fought the long defeat and brought other people on to fight the long defeat, and I am not going to stop because we keep losing. Now I actually think sometimes we may win. I don't dislike victory.... You know, people from our background-- like you, like most PIH-ers (Partners In Health-ers), like me--we're used to being on a victory team, and actually what we're trying to do in PIH is to make common cause with the losers. Those are two very different things. We want to be on the winning team, but at the risk of turning our backs on the losers, no, it's not worth it. So you fight the long defeat.

It's an amazing quote really, and made me go do a little internet research about Paul Farmer. It also made me want to read the book, which I am going to try and order from the library next time I go there. But I wondered where he had come up with this vaguely familiar concept of the long defeat. There seemed to be a bit of disagreement, but I came to the conclusion that it was likely he was quoting from one of his favorite books, The Lord of the Rings. It seems that Galadriel says to the weary Frodo, "Through the ages of the world we have fought the long defeat."

For days, and weeks, the phrase "the long defeat" has echoed in my ears. What in the world is the "long defeat"? And why in the world would anyone in their right mind want to fight it? I am all for choosing the winning side and planning and working toward victory. I see almost everything as a win or a loss, and I am not accustomed to losing. I have been known to carefully weigh odds, and choose not to participate, based on the assumption that I could not win, and was therefore wasting my time.

For the last few years, I have been fighting the uphill battle, desperate to wring wins out of the excruciating effort. As time rolls on, and I am able to see the writing on the wall, I must acknowledge that I am likely fighting the "long defeat" in many areas of my life. Here are the lyrics that grab me, and wring something out of my soul:

I have joined the long defeat that falling set in motion.
All my strength and energy are raindrops in the ocean.

So conditioned for the win, to share in victors' stories,
but in the place of ambition's din, I've heard of other glories.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

I can't just fight when I think I'll win, that's the end of all belief;
and nothing has provoked it more than a possible defeat.

I pray for an idea, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

We walk awhile, we sit and rest, we lay it on the altar.
I won't pretend to know what's next, but what I have I've offered.

I pray for a vision, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.
I pray for inspiration, and a way I cannot see.
It's too heavy to carry, and impossible to leave.

(The Long Defeat by Sara Groves)

Up to this point in my life I never really had to pray for an idea, vision, inspiration. I have always been full of ideas. Up until now, I had never found myself in the middle of the road, facing the dilemma that my burden was too heavy to carry, but too precious to abandon. I am not acquainted with "the way I cannot see". I was always too smart to choose the losing side.

Ode to a Red Warm-Up Suit

2010-08-29T08:40:00.004-05:00

When I was a child of eleven or twelve, I decided to buy a warm-up suit. Back in those days, warm-up clothes, sweat suits if you will, were highly specific items of clothing. No one owned multiple pairs of sweat pants or piles of fashionable "hoodies". Athletic clothing was mostly confined to athletic activities, and non athletic people like myself, just did not own such a thing, much less wear it out in public. I would have just as soon turned up at school in my nightgown. For gym class, you rounded up a pair of shorts from the previous summer, with a T-shirt nobody cared about, and these were your "gym clothes".

May I say, right off the bat, that I hated gym? I would wake up on "gym days" with dread in my gut. There were several layers to my dread. First, I hated to exert myself. Not in general, but for the forty minutes between science and history. It interrupted the flow of my day, and made me feel all distracted and disjointed. Plus I hated to go back to class all sweaty, but in elementary school, no one had the option to take a shower. I think there was a shower, but I never saw it used, ever. And then also, I hated most gym class activities. I wasn't terribly good at them, and people got so worked up and even mean about them. And it was cold. I grew up in New England, where our school buildings were drafty and cold. Every day I bundled up in corduroy, turtlenecks, and woolen sweaters and tights. Undressing for gym was torture. I would put on those shorts, and stand in the drafty gym, clutching my arms around my middle, my legs purple and goose pimpled. The gym teacher would cheerfully exhort us that if we would "get moving" we would warm up, and it was true. But there was no middle ground. One moment I would be shivering convulsively, the next minute my hair would be plastered to my forehead with sweat. Even worse were spring and fall days, when the cheerful gym teacher would desire to "get us out into the fresh air". Those were fifty degree days, out in the stingy sunlight, running across soggy fields. The brisk breeze cut through the worn T-shirt like a knife and numbed the bare limbs, and no amount of "moving" warmed one up.

And then the most brilliant idea came to me. I was reading the Sears Wishbook, and my eyes fell upon the picture of a happy, athletic girl wearing a warm-up suit. It really was a marvel that my mind even registered the picture, since I usually skipped past the athletic section of the book, but somehow fate was with me. I stopped to consider the knit jacket that zipped up the front, and the straight knit pants with elastic waistband. I pondered the color options of navy and red, and the triple white stripes down sleeve and pant leg. Like a message from heaven itself, the dress code for gym class flashed before me, and I realized that warm up suits could be worn in place of shorts and T-shirts. I became a woman on a mission. I would buy a warm-up suit.

I told everyone about my plan. I quickly checked my resources. I probably had a dollar or two in change. But Christmas was coming, and I knew I would receive cash gifts. I could probably rely on a few dollars to come directly into my hands, but the key was the check from Grandma. Grandma would send a check to my mother, and my mother would decided what to buy with it. I knew I must persuade my mother to order the suit, or all would be lost for another school year. For weeks, perhaps months, I mounted my persuasive campaign. For weeks, perhaps months, my mother tried to dissuade me. She could not see the sense in spending all my Christmas money on such a specific item of clothing, when there were so many other things I might need or enjoy.

In the end, I stuck to my plan, and either I persuaded or annoyed my mother into ordering that suit for me. I chose red, and stood anxiously by while my mother phoned in the order. I chewed down my nails, waiting for the call that would say the parcel had arrived at the store, and was ready for pick up. I anguished through the days, waiting for my parents to make the drive into town to pick up my precious package. It seemed as though it would never happen, but finally it was in my hands, a surprisingly small, light weight sack. I rolled it out of the bag with something akin to wonder. There it was, in all its fire engine red polyester glory, and I knew that I loved it.

My mother looked at me and sniffed. "I hope you're happy with it." Her tone implied that she did not believe I would be, but she was wrong. I was happy for every gym class until I went off to high school. It never made gym class fun or enjoyable. It didn't make me less sweaty when I got overheated. But every time I hurried out of my warm clothes and into those soft ,warm long pants and sleeves, I was happy. Every time I lined up in a chilly gym, or on a windy playground, next to shivering classmates, I was happy.

I learned a lesson with that purchase. I learned that sometimes you just have to spend all your Christmas money on the thing that will help make life bearable. Sure, I could have economized and kept on shivering. Would I even remember the thing my mother would have talked me into buying with the Christmas check from my grandmother? I learned that most of the time, nobody else understands what you need, or how much it matters. My mother never understood my horrible fear of the warm-up suit getting delayed in the laundry, the fear of being reduced to a worn out pair of shorts. I guess it was the first time I learned a little something about self care. Even now, I often equate self care with selfishness. I wasn't selfish by buying that suit. Sure I could have sent my Christmas check to starving children in Mexico, but we all know that wasn't going to happen. My mother would have discouraged it. My Grandmother already sent money to starving children in various locations. She meant this money for me.

Sometimes God sends me a Christmas check, and often I try and send it to starving children or give it away, but God doesn't always want me to do that. Sometimes He intends it to be just for me. Sometimes, I believe, He wants me to order a fire engine red polyester warm-up suit and stay warm.

Coming to Peace...

2010-08-07T14:16:00.005-05:00

I am slowly coming to peace with some choices we have had to make. From my viewpoint, we were presented with several options, none of which I liked. The only option I did actually like, is not an option. No go, off the table. Nothing I can do will make it an option at this point. So I sat down with my other options, and weighed out the pros and cons of each. The problem is, that most of the options I felt I could live with, had huge cons for myself and beloved husband. Probably the kind of cons that would have us checking into a double occupancy rubber room. The options that "worked" in any way for us and the family as a whole, seemed to not work for one of our especially challenging children. I have been circling, and researching, and filling out forms, and scratching my head. I have had endless emails and phone calls. Every night I have gone to bed discouraged and restless, but each morning I have awoken full of resolve to make the right choice, regardless of the cost.

The funny thing is this. Every time I would get going in a track, and would be getting excited about the possibilities, something would come to light regarding this challenging child. Something that would stop me in my tracks, and make me question the track I was currently on. Again and again it has happened, to the point that I am able to predict that if I get an energizing phone call or email, I will also get news of some wonky behavior within the hour. It might be new wonky behavior, or just old stuff coming to light. But invariably, the new awareness always seems to put the current proposed course of action in serious question.

The other morning we were dealing with wonky, and it just came over me, that we should not change anything at all. That we were to just stay the current course, even though it has all the earmarks of failure. That's the thing...no matter what we try, once the novelty has been wrung out of it, it always begins to look like failure. And like any parent, adoptive or otherwise, I start to put things under the microscope and look for alternatives. What am I doing wrong? What do I need to change? How can I rally the resources to make the needed change?

The other day I was visiting with a missionary friend, who is currently contemplating change, and had been really unsettled about what course she should take. She was so afraid that she would go her own way, and miss God's will, that she was actually propelling herself toward that which was hardest, and even most distasteful to her, in fear of shirking the difficult call. In a time of intense prayer, a friend told her they felt impressed by God to ask her, "What do you want to do?" This was so shocking to her system, that her reaction was actually physical.

I felt, the other morning, in the midst of chaos, that same impression. "What do you want to do?" I realized I didn't want to do anything at all. I wanted to stay the course we had begun, in spite of the fact that on many levels it appears to have failed. I realized that I was willing to make a change, even a change that would cost me dearly, but that my willingness was not confirmation that change should occur. I also realized that every bit of what appeared to be failure, had nothing to do with me or my choices. It had nothing to do with me shirking hard work, or my willingness to love or serve my daughter, or the rest of my family.

Most, if not all, of the failure results from my daughter's inability to make good choices for herself. It isn't even for me to try and sort out how much blame should sit on her shoulders, or how much of it she is led to by her traumatic history. I just know it doesn't rest on my shoulders. Not that I don't feel the weight of it. I do. And I am willing to continue helping to carry that weight, as any mother, adoptive or otherwise, would.

And anyhow, I'm getting used to this looking like failure gig. I realize that what looks like success in so many young people is just smoke and mirrors, and what looks like failure is often the building blocks for something real and good. I'm willing to bet on that, even though at times it's hard to believe in.

Stupid, Stupid Me

2010-07-24T12:00:00.005-05:00

I can be dumb sometimes, but my children are very good at hammering away at my thick skull, until I come down from my cloud and see reason. One of my daughters has been having a delightful couple of weeks. She has had some time off of work, and has been enjoying it with a variety of pastimes. She has been watching movies and playing her new video game system that she purchased second hand at a bargain. She has been enjoying yummy meals at the dining hall, and pitching in to help around camp, but only when she felt like it, nothing mandatory. We've had a houseful of fun company, and more on the way. This week she pretty much ran with the campers, as it was our own denomination here, running their youth camp. Fun, fun, and more fun.

And then this morning I saw it. Something very nasty, that I haven't seen for a long time. I thought at first, well maybe she didn't do it on purpose. Maybe she really just forgot. But her sister declared that she had asked her to clean up before she left this morning, and she had refused, saying, "I'll get to it later." Translate, "After Mom finds it and gets her fill."

Stupid, stupid me, to think she was OK with all this recreating, and hanging out with peers. Stupid me for believing she was happy to have extended family come to visit. Stupid me, for thinking she could go play under the supervision of other adults, and not be tempted to "Mommy-shop" as we call it. The indulging of fantasies concerning how wonderful it might be to go live with this FUN CHATTY ADULT, who only ever does crafts with me, and who never ever tells me no or asks me to something UNFUN.

Well, I AM that stupid. And when it slapped me in the face, almost literally, today... let's just say that I did not react well. Really. I was shocked to be disrespected. I was shocked to be disobeyed. I was shocked to have a door slammed on me as I tried to walk through it. I was shocked to be told that I was hated, along with "this place and all of you". I was shocked at the speed we rocketed back to a very bad place that I thought we had escaped. It's OK. We'll get past it, and process it, and say our sorries and I forgive yous, and move on. But right now it really stinks, because company is on the road approaching our house, and I have really been looking forward to this time. And now I have a sullen, angry teen in tow. Can anyone say "wet blanket"?

This is one of those moments I think to myself, "No one told us about this at our adoption prep classes." No one filled us in on how many blessed events would be shadowed with a miserable child, or a miserable adult having to deal with the miserable child. It's a lot like when you had a baby or toddler, and right in the middle of the holidays or a special event, baby came undone. You had planned and anticipated, but you did not plan for or anticipate teething or an ear infection. Your baby cried nonstop, keeping the rest of the household in a state of exhaustion. One spouse might have ended up missing out on the fun, because they had to walk to halls with the fussing child, or even stay home so the child could be put to bed. They don't tell you in adoption class that it's like that, only the baby is a teen, and after years of it, does not show signs of outgrowing this awkward stage. They don't warn you how thin your patience may become.

Just to Clarify...

2010-07-14T12:42:00.002-05:00

This is mostly in response to the comment by my friend Lisa, who stops by to comment frequently, and often ends up pouring out her heart. When I say "angrily", I am not referring to the normal, healthy anger that wells up in me when my child is acting up because:

She is angry at me for kindly, but firmly, holding her accountable for things like her schoolwork, or hygiene, or attitude.
She is acting out her trauma resulting from eleven years of chaos, prior to her coming to live with me.
She is using an impaired brain, most likely created by aforementioned trauma and probable substance abuse by her birthmother while she was pregnant with my daughter.
All of the above, all at the same time.

And when I say "normal, healthy anger", I mean the kind that comes from the realization that this should not be so. In an ideal world, my child would not have to be dealing with this, and it really stinks, and it makes me mad.

I do not mean the kind of anger that usually rises up in me, that comes from me feeling annoyed and inconvenienced by this ungrateful, punk kid's rotten behavior. And yes, I'm oversimplifying it to some degree, because the truth is, I usually have some degree of both angers in me, and yes, indeed, we are a work in progress. I would hope.

I Do Good Things...Angrily

2010-07-13T11:50:00.006-05:00

A friend of mine has recently sent her second son off to the Marine boot camp. This morning she posted this quote from a letter from her son.

The last DI is crazy. He's really skinny, and the angriest person I've ever met. He's like a snake. His eyes water, sweat constantly drips off his body, and he never smiles. When we're in formation and he sees somebody mess up, he bends over, sprints through the formation, and pops up right in front of the recruit and starts screaming. He's insane.

I wonder about this fellow. I wonder what kind of husband he is to his wife, if he's married. I wonder what sort of father he is to his children, if he has any. I wonder what his phone conversations home to his parents sound like. I assume he has parents. I know he's doing his job. I understand this. I know he's employing a technique, designed to elicit a certain response. I get that. But how do you turn that off when you go home at night?

It makes me think of the recent insurance commercial, "Does an ex-drill sergeant make a good therapist?" Go on and click the link. It'll make you laugh. It's really funny stuff, and it makes me think of RAD. Most days, I'm not sure if I'm a drill sergeant or a therapist. Over the course of the last few years, I've done a lot of reading about attachment. A lot. I've gleaned a lot of good information and encouragement, creative strategies and ideas. Most of them advocate a high level of structure, near constant supervision, extreme attentiveness and sensitivity to what our children are "really saying" by their unique life choices. (Read "wonky behavior".)

For a long time I've felt as though I was a drill sergeant, or a prison warden, or an employee of a psych facility. I felt like my "normal" home life had been invaded by something unnatural. Parenting this way, made me feel unnatural, and I resented it. I found myself angry and irritable all the time, and this overflowed onto my bio children, who, in my opinion, did not need this high level of structure, supervision, or attentiveness. In fact, they rankled under it, and around it, and beside it... because though it was not always directly pointed at them, they had to live with it.

Lately I have been doing some internal housekeeping, and I am discovering some misconceptions I have long had about myself. First, I did not become an angry, harsh person when I began parenting children with attachment issues. Sure, it was like putting a magnifying glass over it. Suddenly the angry got really huge, but it was always there. I have been trying to do good things angrily. I'm angry because no one else cares to do the good along side of me. I'm angry because doing the right thing is so darned hard. I'm angry when obstacles to doing good things are thrown in front of me. I'm angry when no one properly appreciates the good thing I'm doing. In the good old days, it was easier to hide the anger. I didn't feel so alone. Doing the right thing wasn't quite as hard. My obstacles were much smaller. I felt more appreciated. But the anger was always there, and my family knew it, if no one else did.

Another misconception I had, was that I was an excellent parent. I would have defined myself as highly disciplined, but I was not. The truth is, I have become a highly disciplined parent because I began parenting children with challenges. And now, minus my anger, I am a far better parent than I used to be. Back in the old days, I spent far more time gratifying myself, and I placed my own desires above the drudgery of providing structure, supervision, and attentiveness to my family. I skated by on something I didn't even know existed. It was called attachment, and I took it for granted. Because of it, my children only fell so far. I had done all the basics, like nurse my babies, and snuggle them through their toddler years. I met all their basic needs with regularity, and I did some of the extras too. Because I was highly motivated by what others thought of me, I always made sure my children looked good, and this helped too. Clean, tidy children in cute clothing always attract positive attention. I personally hated when children were bratty and ill behaved, so I made sure my children behaved well in public. Hippie Boy nearly killed me, but they all had a reasonable amount of social skill.

And so I patted myself on the back, because I was doing it right. I felt ridiculously confident in my abilities. My adopted children have humbled me. Before they came, I had a niggling suspicion that I might not be up to the task. I think I knew somewhere deep in me, that I was not giving this thing my very best, no matter how it might appear to others. I actually feared that I might have to dig deeper and give more, because I knew I didn't want to. I read a lot about all of it, not really to prepare myself for change, but to be well informed. Somehow I hoped information would be enough.

Then the girls came, hitting our shores like a tidal wave, and I was swept away. In the beginning I just fought to keep my head above water. Over time I was able to find solid ground again, and found that nothing I had built previously would stand under the crushing weight of our new family. I began to build again, and this time I built slowly, carefully, using up everything I had. The new structures held a bit longer each time, before they collapsed into rubble. I learned, and built muscle, and a resilience I had never known before. But all the while I was angry. I was like a drill sergeant, good at my job, getting the proper result, but at what cost to myself, if it was anger eating me?

And then an even more novel and disturbing thought came to me. I was longing for the time before, and most of my anger stemmed from the knowledge that I could never, ever bring it back. I was longing for the time when I could hide my anger, because my life was structured in such a way that this was possible. I was longing for a time when I was ruled by my emotions, lazy and slipshod, and worst of all, getting away with it. I was longing for a time of foolish youthfulness, painting it with rosy nostalgia, knowing deep inside that it was a lie. I want to go back to my lie because it was easier and more entertaining. I tell myself that back in the good old days, I was more lighthearted. I tell myself I miss my lighthearted self. The truth is, I was often childish and selfish, demanding fun diversions to fill my days. I wasn't lighthearted at all, if I couldn't get exactly what I wanted. I tell myself I was more loving and affectionate with my children, but I loved on them when it suited me, and left them to their own devices when it did not. Because they were relatively well adjusted little humans, they muddled through with a minimum of scars, but the fact remains, I was a not intentional and disciplined when they were small. Now I try to be, but they are already mostly formed, and they resent my interference.

I am in the process of stripping, and restructuring my thoughts. It is taking far longer than I had imagined it would. I had imagined myself with a yellow pad and a sharp pencil, maybe a few cups of coffee. My pad is mostly empty, and the coffee cups are piling up. I thought I would make a list of "changes to be made", and set in motion a plan. I find myself sitting still, doing nothing but watching the comings and goings of those around me. Wouldn't it be interesting if we could live life backward in some way, knowing what we know now? But life is to be lived forward, and I know that God is not a wastrel. All of this can be used as fuel for living forward, if only I can figure out what that means. I'll keep you posted.

I'm Available...

2010-07-07T08:13:00.006-05:00

I am writing today, about a controversial subject. For several years, many thoughts have kicked around in my brain concerning adoption, and which children should be adopted. Or which children should even be available for adoption. A friend and wise woman, Christine Moers writes this:

First and foremost, the very best place for any child is with their first family, if it is safe and loving. I know, I know … it seems as though if a child has to skip a day without food and cannot ever afford to go to school … well, they should be somewhere else, right?

No. No.

In case you didn’t catch that, it was, “No.” We need to support families who can and will parent their children. This is a struggle for me. I am American. We see certain things as basic rights and basic needs, when our greatest need is family. Take a few deep breaths and wrap your brain around that one for a little bit. There are no clear-cut answers, and it is organic with many, many factors. However, always, always keep this truth in focus. We should be supporting families first. Period.

Some of her children came from Haiti originally, and so her heart is there, with struggling families. Many argue that the wealthy Westerner's desire to adopt, has created a market for babies from poorer countries. To some degree, there is truth in this statement. But I have not traveled that road, and so my thoughts tend to wander around the neighborhood of my own experience.

Three of my children were adopted out of the US foster care system. They were removed from their mother all at the same time, when they were ranging in age from baby to preschooler. Up until that time their mother had kept them housed, clothed, fed, and safe enough that when they were sheltered into care, they were in good physical health. They had no bruises or injuries. They were not sick or malnourished. They were of normal size and development for their ages.

It is not my place to discuss the private details of their particular case in this public venue, but there were clearly problems with this family unit. They were the sort of problems that almost inevitably come out of American urban poverty. They were firmly entrenched problems, that had a generational history that likely stretched all the way back to the slave culture.

At this point in time, a system with white middle class values stepped in to protect my children. I am not saying that there wasn't something to protect them from, or that they weren't potentially being placed at some risk. But someone set up a plan for their mother to "get her children back", and much of that plan was completely alien to this mother. She was told that she must do things she had never done, things that she had never seen modeled for her by other adults in her life. She was told she must provide material goods for her children, that no one had provided for her as a child; that she must supervise and care for her children in ways she had never been cared for herself as a child. It is likely that she thought of much of her "plan" as a joke. Some pie in the sky ideas, from rich white folk who have no idea what life in her world really was.

In the end, it turned out to be no joke, because they took her children away from her, forever. Some people say she walked away from efforts to reunite with her children, actually bringing back one child after having her home for several months. But the reunification happened four or five years after her children were taken from her. Her baby was now six years old, and her toddlers were eight and nine. They had been separated in their foster homes, and bounced around from caregiver to caregiver. Most experienced foster care providers were struggling to meet their needs and deal with their behaviors, and yet they were to go home to a strange mother and a new baby sister.

When they came to me I almost despaired. Nearly four years later, I still sometimes almost despair. I am older than their mother. I have more parenting experience. I was trained to receive traumatized children into my home (for whatever that's worth). I am educated. I am financially secure. I have a husband. I have a support system. I still hold my head in my hands, and wonder if I can do this. How in the world, did anyone with half a brain in their head believe this woman could do what was required of her to "get her children back"?

And on another level... a level I struggle to travel to... I wonder if she should have had to do these things. Am I saying that she was an excellent mother by even the most lenient standard? No. If my children had been left where they were, they would have been largely unsupervised and untaught. They would not have valued the things I value, like education for example. They would have likely dropped out of high school, and found themselves largely unemployable. They would not have valued hard work, and would have learned early how to navigate the welfare system. They would not have the same moral or religious base that I hold dear. They would have thought it acceptable to begin having sex at an early age, and place much of their personal value in the having of babies without the benefit of marriage. They also would have been exposed to a lifestyle that says drug and alcohol abuse is normal, men don't stay, and life is short and uncertain, so we must grasp at immediate pleasure. Planning for the future, declining present gratification in exchange for future reward, and self sacrifice would have been alien and useless concepts.

But was their first family safe and loving? By their own standard, yes. I believe this woman loved her children, and kept them as safe as she expected any child to be kept. She fed them, and clothed them, and housed them. They were not wandering the streets in rags, begging for food. She took them to have their hair braided, and took them to fast food restaurants and playgrounds. They remember these things. They also remember that her apartment was "pretty dirty", and that once the littlest one had turned the tub faucet on and the water had run all over the house and made a huge mess. They remembered that there were roaches.

And this is what I know. Many children grow up safe and loved in dirty homes. Every mother gets distracted and a child does something like overflows a bathtub, or paints a wall, or strips in the front yard. And everyone struggles with insects in the deep south. So I could put on my social worker hat, and be indignant about the filthy living conditions, or lack of supervision, but it would be misplaced indignation.

This is also what I know. A family was taken from my children... the thing they most needed to become whole human beings. They lost their mother and one another, for eight long years, in the institution of foster care. During that time, they were checked on regularly, to be sure they were healthy, clean, clothed, and fed. The amount of space devoted to them was carefully checked, and their safety was monitored. The state dictated how they were to be supervised and by whom. They received "services", and counseling, and gifts from strangers during holiday seasons. But they had no family, and the institution of foster care does not love you, and it struggles to keep you safe.

This is also what I know. By the time my children came to me, they were only bits and pieces of what they might have been. A fraction of what they once were. And I am not convinced that all the love, patient teaching, and therapeutic parenting in the world, will ever put "Humpty together again". We can make it better than it was. Someday it might even appear that we produced a better product than their first family would have. What's done is done. We ARE their best hope, but I am not completely sold on this system.

Two of my daughters are struggling with matters of faith. They know they are not organizing their lives around Jesus, though they say they want to. As they struggle with their own failures, they both circle around to the fact that, "My birthmom never knew this. My birthmom needs Jesus." It makes them cry. It should make all of us cry. The world is full of people who are living thin, threadbare lives because they don't know Jesus. They are satisfied with the scraps they can get today, because they don't know there is a tomorrow. I may be saying a very unpopular thing, but our system here in the US, does not know how to support families that want to parent their children. I don't believe government programs really can. Maybe they can provide safety nets for crisis situations, but they can't come into relationship with a family, and help them figure out what they need. Government programs give ultimatums that people can't or won't meet, but they can't come into relationship with that person, in a away that holds them accountable for their attitudes and actions.

When my daughters say, "My birthmom never knew Jesus," they say it with wide open, astonished eyes, as if suddenly everything was clear to them. Because suddenly it is.

What I Hate About "Fundraising"

2010-07-02T15:39:00.004-05:00

I detest typical fundraising efforts. I hate to send my children out to peddle stuff. My least favorite type of fundraiser goes something like this:

My child is sent home with a catalog and order form for some overpriced luxury item like candles or candy.
They are expected to make the rounds of our closest family, friends, and neighbors to sell their wares.
They are expected to collect money by a prescribed date, and turn it in with properly filled out forms.
They then receive a small portion of the sales towards their "fund".

This is how it really goes:

I have to nag my children to go peddle their wares, because they feel uncomfortable doing it, and because they have other far more interesting things to do with their time.
I have to keep track of order forms and money, because, HELLO, these are children here. As a rule, when people fork over money, they don't expect it to end up in the black hole of my son's bedroom.
We rapidly run out of customers because:

We live in the boonies.
We don't live near extended family.
We have several children in the family competing for the same customer base.
We associate with people who don't have a lot of extra money, and aren't interested in spending it on overpriced trinkets.

I think these fundraisers are evil because they put pressure on kids and families to do something that makes them fundamentally uncomfortable. Furthermore, they don't encourage kids to actually work toward their goal, because really all they do is make the request and collect the cash. Mom usually does all the real work of managing the project and distributing the goods. Plus, most of the time, the smallest part of the profit goes to your cause. All along the way, others are getting their piece of the pie.

The only type of fundraising I actually approve, is when a kid works hard to provide a service or product that people actually want. It should be presented in a manner that puts no pressure on the potential customer. I like bake sales and car washes, because all the profits go to the cause, and no one feels strong armed into pulling over and submitting to having their car washed. Generally the same is true of bake sales, as the goods are fairly priced, and you are free to walk on past, if the sight of fudge brownies doesn't compromise you.

Lots of folks have the cockles of their hearts warmed at the sight of hard working young people, willing to give their time and energy to a cause or goal. Those folks often generously say, "Keep the change," or drop cash into a donation bucket, even if they don't have a car to wash or want a sweet. But no one put pressure on them to do it. They didn't feel taken advantage of, when their $20 box of caramels arrived, and they realized it fit on the palm of their hand. Sure looked bigger in the catalog.

I also admire people who train to do something HARD, like run a marathon, or jump on a pogo stick 10,000 times, to raise money for worthy causes. Really, they are just straight up asking you to give. They're saying, "This is important enough to me, that I'm willing to do something potentially painful to make it happen. Will you help me?" And I can respect that, because I can say yes or no as I'm able, and anyone who is strong enough to run a marathon, can deal with me saying no. But those candle and candy companies bank on the notion that cute little kids, with sad puppy dog eyes, are impossible to say no to, and that's just slippery in my opinion. Not admirable in the least.

I'm undecided about dinners. I think if you provide a nice meal, maybe some quality entertainment, and a presentation of the goal, it can be quite good. But I've been to a few sad pasta dinners and chicken barbecues, where I felt the value was just not there, and I didn't really care if the cause was worthy. People who fork over the cash for benefit dinners are honored guests. I think they should be treated as such, even if the fare is simple.

I realize I've used words like HATE, DETEST, and EVIL in this post. Clearly I feel strongly about this matter. I suppose that qualifies this as a rant. My son will be so proud. He loves a good rant.

There's a Sucker Born Ev'ry Minute...

2010-06-14T21:07:00.006-05:00

This year Hippie Boy will be performing his first solo dance on the stage. He is doing a theatrical number from the musical "Barnum", combining dance, pantomime, and lip sync. Really, it's hysterical, and his teacher couldn't have picked a number he was better suited for. Go on and hit the link, because the performance is great (not my son), and you won't know what I'm talking about if you don't.

Every time I hear the song, and I've heard it many times in the last few weeks, it makes me think of my dear adopted daughters, and the older adopted children of many other families I know personally. I don't mean to be insulting in any way, but the song is about a freak show, and how willing the suckers are, to plunk down their cash and get a peek.

Sometimes I feel as though my life has become a freak show. It seems to feature the very good, the very bad, and the downright bizarre. In another time and place, I realize that my adopted children might have made good circus folk, in a figurative kind of way. Remember that the freak show is all about keeping it superficial. It comes to town with much fanfare, sets up its tents and begins to hawk its wares. It is built upon the notion that you will be happy to hand over the price of admission for a quick glimpse of something spectacular. But do not try and get too close, or ask too many questions. Move along folks, there are others waiting their turn. And when the suckers have all gone home with wonder in their eyes, someone rolls up the tents, and rolls out of town in the dead of night.

Surely my children believed that there was a "sure as shootin' sucker born a minute", and for awhile they played me for one. Even now they still manage to sucker me now and again. But I was just one sucker in a long, long line. In their minds, they knew how to work the crowd, and get pretty much everything they wanted. The only price to pay was that they had to get out of town before dawn. If the audience didn't like the show, they could change it up. They had an abundance of fantastic and bizarre stories...maybe enough to last a lifetime.

As with any good song that tells a story, this one is wonderfully amusing, but the kicker is in the final line. Why else would we assume the world is full of suckers, just waiting to be swindled and "played"? Of course...it makes perfect sense.

An Essay

2010-06-08T20:56:00.003-05:00

"Children obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. 'Honor your father and mother,' which is the first commandment with a promise: 'that it may be well with you and you may live long on the earth.' " Ephesians 6:1-3

"The eye that mocks a father, that scorns obedience to a mother, will be pecked out by the ravens of the valley, will be eaten by the vultures." Proverbs 30:17

These have been part of an ongoing writing assignment for one of my children. In addition to writing the verses many, many times, they were also expected to write an essay sharing their thoughts regarding obedience to the authorities God has placed over us. Of course we all memorized the first verse as children, and quote it regularly to our own children. The second is slightly less widely memorized and quoted, yet the message is not lost on a girl who lives where there is lots and lots of roadkill. She knows that dying by the side of the road means that the crows will eat you. After some discussion, she understood that disobedience doesn't necessarily strike you dead, but that a life of honor and obedience comes with a promise, and likewise, so does a life of dishonor and disobedience.

It took about a week of dishonor and disobedience to finally get to the place where she completed the copying part of her assignment. It should have taken no more than two days. I reminded her that she needed to write her essay. She pretty much told me where I could go with my essay. It was in this climate of anger, more than a week out from any discussion about the verses, that she began to write. I am amazed at the result. I will share in her very own words, that you may be amazed as well. I will add that although I will edit very slightly for spelling, this essay was well written in neat, pretty cursive, with little need for the red marking pen.

I think that disobedience will get you nowhere but in a broken down house somewhere. Which would lead to you smoking, and doing drugs, and drinking. This will also lead to you being sexually active and having kids that you don't want. Your kids will be like you. You will also be in and out of jail for getting in trouble with the law. Which is pretty bad. You will be sick and will look pretty bad and ugly. This will lead to you dying somewhere on the side of the road. And if somebody found you they probably wouldn't know who you were.

I think obedience will lead to you having a good life. You will get a good education. You will go to college and get a good job. You will get married and have kids that will be healthy and very obedient. Which will be great. They will have good friends and be good students at school. They won't be in and out of jail. You will live long in a nice home with a nice family. When you died there would be lots of nice people that knew you that would come to your funeral.

I think we should all go for obedience, because you will get a lot further in life with it. We should all go for obedience which would be a great choice. You won't have a bad life.

Lala's Backpack

2010-06-04T21:19:00.005-05:00

(Yes. This flowered, LLBean backpack, in case you wonder.)

Today Lala came home from school with this. But don't worry, when I opened the case, this was what was really inside. She says she was holding it for a friend and forgot to give it back. REALLY!?!

Here's the funny part. She expects me to drive to the friend's house and return it to her, because school is out. If her friend blew her nose and stuffed the dirty tissue into Lala's backpack, I would not drive to her house to return it.

Flowers For....Me

2010-06-02T20:47:00.003-05:00

In the last couple of weeks we have painted through our entire new house, moved into it, cleaned and polished up the old place. We broke down the goat pen and moved it, and cleaned up and reseeded the area where the pen used to sit. We've attended concerts, and dinners, and closing programs. We've had dress rehearsals for dance recitals, and graduation parties to attend. We've also dealt with cheating and lying, physical defiance and restraints. Life has been tipped upside down a bit, and attachment disordered children don't like that. Neither do attached children, or Moms or Dads for that matter.

In the midst of all this, I have been working on putting in flower beds. I don't really have the time, but I do it anyhow. I do it for me, and pretty much that's all. My house faces a deserted dirt road, that might see two cars a day, so no one will be commenting on how nice my yard looks. Beloved wanders out occasionally and cheers me on, but he would happily live in a weed patch. Nobody else in my family cares one bit about the landscaping, with the possible exception of Hippie Boy, who is currently having a love affair with a pretty orange Husquvarna push mower that he calls "his baby". Technically it was my Mother's Day gift a few years ago, but whatever. I don't really mind that my mower is cheating on me with my son.

And while he mows his little heart out, any day the weather permits, I try to get outdoors and weed, mulch, plant. Today I filled five buckets with black gold, otherwise known as my own special compost mix. It's a blend of goat manure and decomposing hay, aged for up to seven years, so rich you might be tempted to eat it with a spoon. Well, maybe not, but my plants eat it up. I turned it over into my beds, and planted my flowers, cradling them in their carefully dug holes, or in the flower boxes on my porch.

Last month was my birthday, and a friend sent me a gift. Although her husband had recently lost his job, and she was up to her eyeballs in her own challenges, she remembered that it was my birthday, and she took the time to send me a card, write me a note, and send me the dough with instructions to get a treat, just for me. For a month I have been wondering what I should buy, just for me. Last weekend I knew it was flowers; beautiful, cheerful, pink and blue flowers. I know they have fancy names, but to me, all summer, they will be my Coreyflowers.

In the midst of the crazy I will head out to my unremarked upon front yard, and pull weeds and pluck spent blossoms. I will do it just for me, and I will look at the delicate faces of my Coreyflowers and I will think of my RADmom friends. I will hope and pray that they are finding a moment of peace in their crazy days.

Morning in a Coffee Shop

2010-05-01T16:43:00.002-05:00

Otherwise known as... I die and go to heaven. Kind of. This morning we got up pretty early for a Saturday on which Beloved was not working. We hustled six teens (one was borrowed) through breakfast, showers, and chores, and were headed out the door to attend free comic book day at our sons' favorite comic book store. This is a BIG DEAL in our house. All three of my men are comic fanatics in their own way, and dear sweet Hippie Boy plans to attend a school specifically for comic book art. Day by day he is either buried in stacks of comics which he is reading, or wading through reams of paper, as he feverishly draws and draws. My Beloved has not yet realized his dream to do the same, and he and Hippie Boy fantasize about going off to school together, and becoming a famous father/son art sensation. Who does that? Slightly off topic, but HB has also asked Beloved to become the vocalist in his rock band...which is particularly comic to the one who routinely stands between the two at church. Perhaps hymns just aren't their genre. But I digress. Back to the coffee shop.

On the way to the comic book store is a coffee shop, and I politely asked to be dropped off. I had my book, and all I needed was a cup of coffee, a giant muffin, and a seat in a sunny window. Heaven. Oh yes, and Lala. I had Lala. Since the start of fourth term, Lala has made a great deal of noise about bringing her grades up, working hard on her school work, improving her attitude, and so on. For a short while the evidence seemed to bear out that she was indeed trying to do this. As always, her efforts were met with encouragement to continue the good fight, and a gentle relaxing of restrictions and restoration of privileges. Not that she was all the way there yet, or that I was totally buying the whole thing, but a girl can dream, right? Anyhow, last weekend she had a glorious time, soaking up the fruits of her labors... only she hadn't been laboring the whole previous week. It took until the beginning of this week for the truth to come home to roost, and all the while she was lying every time she opened her mouth, in an attempt to keep up her charade. The funny thing is, I never got into it with her. Several of her teachers took her to task, and I just had to sit back and agree with them. But at the start of this weekend I informed her that last weekend was the last freebie she'd be seeing for awhile.

So Lala did not get to watch a movie last night, nor did she get to go to free comic book day today. She got to sit in the coffee shop and watch Mom drink coffee, and slowly eat a muffin, and occasionally chuckle at her book. Now don't go feeling all sorry for her. I had fed her a good breakfast so she wasn't hungry. She was just bored, and a bit jealous that the rest of the world seemed to be having more fun than she was having. But she was well behaved, and even cheerful. At times I set my book down and we chatted or joked briefly. I think she was having trouble being angry with me.

Community

2010-04-29T18:59:00.004-05:00

A few thoughts on community. A friend recently expressed, that it is hard to live in community. Amen, and you ain't kidding sister! The hardest people you'll ever live with, are the people you live with. I was thinking about this today, as I was mulling over my daughter's attachment challenges. Being pretty classically attachment disordered, she seeks superficial interactions, and spurns anything deeper, more long-standing, anything that holds her accountable. In her muddled fantasy world, people are always fun. They always talk in that high pitched voice that adults reserve for young children they have just met. They always have treats for you, or plans to take you to a playground or fast food restaurant. They never stick around for more than an hour or two. They never show up more than once a week. They are always charmed by your cuteness, or at least pretend to be. This, in her mind, is the ideal relationship...and of course anyone who has experienced a healthy relationship would immediately see the problem with this opinion. It isn't a relationship. Real people, in real relationships spend time together, getting to know one another in a variety of situations. Generally this leads to seeing one another in less than favorable lights at times. And that's okay, because the people who know us and love us, warts and all, are the people that generally stick with us through the tough times, and rejoice with us when we experience success. In other words, you tough it out at times, but the payoff can be pretty big. But my daughter hasn't ever experienced this. To her, instant payoff in the form of a trinket or treat, outweighs the need to work at relationship to experience deeper joy. I find this tremendously sad.

Another thing I've been thinking about, is kind of related. I have a several friends who have adopted older, attachment challenged children. I notice a theme in so many of the conversations we have had over the course of time. There is such a craving for community. I ask myself why. These are strong willed, talented adults. They're not the sorts that would ever have trouble making friends or influencing people. So why do they exist as islands, craving community and fellowship? I believe it is because the course of their lives have taken them down a lonely, isolated road. They thought they knew where it was leading, but then they found themselves so far out in the boonies, that there was no cell phone reception. Wait, that's where I actually live...but I think you can understand that I'm using a metaphor.

So what do you do about it? I see people do a variety of things. Some people venture into town, and try really hard to fit in. They mostly do this by pretending that their lives are like everyone else's. They hide all the trauma and hooey that goes on behind closed doors, and in the end, they feel more alone and even more traumatized. Some people go with the open book model. They try and explain what their lives are like, in the hope that they would have the chance to educate people, and maintain community with the folks they used to connect with so well. Often this results in trauma as well, since those folks are polite, but frequently form opinions that have nothing to do with our reality. And of course they would. It's like trying to explain to someone what it's like to live on Mars. They form their opinions based on their experience of living on Earth. I can't blame them for that, but it does make me cranky at times.

In the end, most of us just end up living in the isolation, whether we like it or not. We get tired of trying to fit into a world that no longer fits us anymore. We grieve for our loss. We say things like, "I just want a normal life..." or "For a minute, it almost felt like we were a normal family..." or "I just want my life back." I've said them all. And while we grieve, we cry out for community, because we are so lonely. Our lives are hard, and I don't say that to whine. They just are. Day in and day out, you learn to eat disappointment. There are victories, large and small, but they are bought at great price.

This is where I'm getting to be at. I say that, because it's a very slow process. This is what I tell myself every day. When I adopted older, traumatized children I kissed normal goodbye. I brought mental illness into my home voluntarily, and I said I was ready to deal with that, and I was so deluded. There isn't a class on this Earth (or Mars for that matter) that can prepare you for that. I have been to the depths of discouragement, and grief, and anger. But here's the weird thing. I really don't want normal, no matter how much I might whine and cry about it. And I'm pretty happy with my life. I used to get all worked up about stupid, inconsequential, selfish things. I used to be weak. I used to be ruled by my emotions. I still am...but I am less so, and I believe that is a good thing. My children are really tough, but I care what happens to them, and I believe that is a good thing. I have some friends who are traveling this lonesome road, and though we don't always physically travel together, I know I don't go it alone. It is enough for me, and I am grateful.

A Thought

2010-04-19T18:54:00.003-05:00

"The demand to know where we are going is one which no Christian has a right to make. In a very real sense we do not know where we are going, but we are trying to meet day by day the plain requirements of God's will."

~Bishop Newbigin 1909-1998

In a Word...

2010-04-12T19:06:00.004-05:00

OK. Two of my Orlando Angels have posted this, and given orders to do it. I am nothing if not obedient. By the way, I know I broke the one word rule with ice cream... but I didn't want to lie.

Hair – troublesome
Your Mother – sputtering
Your Father – puttering
Fav Food – ice cream
Dream Last Night – forgotten
Fav Drink – coffee
What room are you in? – living
Hobby – writing
Fear – cowardice
Where were you last night? – home
Something that you aren’t – patient
Muffins – pumpkin
Wish List Item – solitude
Where you grew up – MA
What you are wearing – socks
Your Pet – many
Friends – cherished
Something you’re not wearing – shoes
Fav Store – grocery
Fav Color – red
Last time you laughed – now
Your Best Friend – husband
Best Place you go over and over – Disney
Person who you email regularly – BJ
Fav place to eat - home

I know this is the part where I'm supposed to tag folks. Just comment and tell me you did it so I can enjoy what you wrote.

Going, and Going, and Going...

2010-04-10T22:04:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I have to ask myself, what kind of payoff is this child getting, that she would keep going, and going, and going. She's like a bad Energizer Bunny. Today we had a staff event. It was a lot of fun, all around. This afternoon, after lunch, I was sitting in the kitchen chatting with my Beloved. The girls were just around the corner in the dining hall, on the other side of the wall. The doors were open. I could hear them, but I couldn't see them. Suddenly I heard a squawk, and Lala came running across the open doorway, doused with a cup of water. Lala was not supposed to be in the dining hall, out of my line of sight. She was supposed to be in the kitchen, where I could see her. She was not supposed to be rough housing with her sisters, pretending to be upset about a little water fight, because she is on restriction from unsupervised play.

Later in the afternoon, we all took a break, to go out in the chilly sunshine, to watch a bunch of goofy teens compete at goofy games. When it got to be about 4:30, Beloved Husband had to get back to his lasagnas and garlic bread. The games would go on, but supper needed to be prepared. Lala needed to come back to the kitchen with us, as she is on restriction from running about camp unsupervised. She was angry. She wanted to stay and watch more of the goofy games.

When we got back to the kitchen she put on her jacket and pulled the hood up over her head. She began to stomp around the kitchen, moving behind the food prep line as Hubby was opening and closing the ovens. He instructed her to stay out from behind the line. Then she went over to a stool and slumped down onto it dramatically. She began to kick at the food prep tables, mostly just trying to get a rise out of someone. The banging was in fact, annoying. Dad tried to chat with her about her angry behavior. He asked a few questions. She refused to answer, and told him to be quiet. Actually, she got quite mouthy and disrespectful, which does not go over well with Dad. I kept my cool, and calmly reminded her that she was making choices, and that she might not like the consequences. She indicated that she did not care.

At supper time I prepared a plate for slumpy, thumpy, angry Lala, who was still wearing her hood over her face, and refusing to speak respectfully to anyone. I could see she was in no shape to eat her meal in a public venue. I made her a nice sandwich, cottage cheese, and a salad. I brought it to her with utensils, napkins, and a drink. She got up and stormed out of the building, declaring that she would not eat anything "SHE made for me". The next three hours were spent with Lala sitting outdoors in the cold with no coat, refusing to come in. When approached, she would scream and holler about how much we hated her, how we did not want her as our daughter, and how we would prefer to see her dead than with us. She was really hoping to engage someone. Anyone really, but no one bit. Even the teen staff girls left her alone for the most part. Nearly everyone is getting used to her theatrics. She moved out of our line of vision so we couldn't tell where she was, or what she was up to. Later she refused to get in the car, and ran and hid when it was time to go home. She refused a ride from her older sister as well. She waited until the cars left, then found an extra jacket and walked the safe half mile home. Then she sat on the deck in the dark, refusing to come in the house. So I guess she only spent about half the time without a coat.

At 8:30 she decided to come indoors and stand in the mudroom. I asked her if she was going back out, or coming in to get ready for bed. I really wasn't sure what she would do, but I guess even the Energizer Bunny gets tired sometimes. She went into her room and put her PJ's on. Later, she came out of her room and stood a few feet away from me. I held up my arm towards her, gesturing for her to come get a goodnight hug. She came towards me, then shied back and said, "I thought you were going to punch me." This was all for the benefit of Libby and Tink who were visiting. Libby-Lou burst out, "PUH-LEASE! 'Cuz HOW many times has she ever punched you?!" She dissolved into laughter, and Lala looked sheepish.

Now she's in bed, all tuckered out after her four hours of tantrum. She'll eat a good breakfast when she gets up in the morning, and I don't expect she'll complain about the fact that I made it. She'll try and monopolize the breakfast conversation by bringing up her shenanigans, and hoping we'll at least discuss it with her. Her siblings will all roll their eyes and sigh.

Life is Only Therapy

2010-04-10T13:45:00.003-05:00

We've all been running up against it...the sad story of the "returned" Russian adoptee. I don't want to write about it. I don't want to think about it. It opens up cans of worms I prefer to leave tightly closed. My friend Corey posted about it today, and her thoughts make me weep. Her response is well thought out, and not an emotional, knee-jerk response to a complex problem. It is true that her perception is colored by her own experiences, how could it not be? Mine is too. We are women living in a constant state of emotional contradiction; intense compassion blended with anger. It is hard to exist in our skins, loving our children so much that we are willing to live such threadbare lives to see them through. It is easy to judge when you still have dreams for your children. It is easy to judge when you still have hope. It is easy to know what you "would have done" when you do not live in constant fear.

I do not believe God wants us to live threadbare fearful lives, devoid of dreams and hope. I believe that God is "slow to anger, and of great kindness"...which implies that God has both anger and compassion for His own children. I believe God does not wish for us to run to judgment, for either the parent or the child. It's the easy road. Isn't it easy to feel anger and indignation about the boy cruising the school halls with a loaded gun? Isn't it easy to feel it about the woman handing a note to her son and shipping him off on an international flight?

We have not chosen the easy road. This thing we do is not for the faint of heart. There is so much outcry about the lack of preparation, the lack of services, the lack of supports. Don't get me wrong. Adoptive parents NEED to be prepared. Services and supports CAN be a lifesaver for a season of time. Go with that word picture... a buoyant ring, that you grab onto to keep from drowning. Something to hold onto, until you can be pulled to safety. They are not permanent solutions. They don't heal our children, they rescue us in the storm. How can you know that you can parent this child? This child is a stranger, and their history is shrouded in mystery. How can you know what you are capable of, both for good and evil, until you are put to the test?

Logic tells me that some people will find that they are made of much stronger stuff than they ever knew possible. Others will find that they grossly overestimated their own capabilities. Why is there no provision for this? Every RAD mom fantasizes about running away. That's not what I'm talking about. Every one of us gets to a breaking point, and it generally isn't pretty. But we get up again, and go back in for another round. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about d.o.n.e. Some people get there, especially if they are isolated and believe they are alone. Maybe most people get there, when they are isolated and believe they are alone.

I realize this is a post with a lot of questions, and very few answers. The more I travel this road, the more I realize how few answers I have. Like the country song says, "Life is only therapy...real expensive, and no guarantee..." I don't want life to be that way. I want guarantees. I want to know something for sure, and I still believe I can. But the only way to do it with ease, is to hold yourself above the fray, away from the pain, out of view of all that is unsavory about humanity. Ivory palaces and all that jazz.

Purse Problems

2010-04-03T17:04:00.004-05:00

I had to confiscate my daughter's "purse" this week. I say purse loosely, because technically it was more of a sack. On so many levels this seems like such a small thing, yet her sack held layers and layers of disobedience and deception.

First problem. The lying. First deception, tell Dad about the purse. That's because it was only Mom who said no purse at school. Dad was blissfully ignorant. Second deception, use a cheap canvas sack, the kind you go green with at the grocery. This allows for if Mom sees you with said sack. Mom will assume you had more school/library books than could comfortably fit in your backpack, and that you were using the sack for backup. Third deception, pretend ignorance. When Mom hears about the "purse" from Dad, pretend not to remember the several conversations regarding why you are not allowed to take a purse to school.

Purse and stuff in it will be a distraction to this child and others at school.
Purse will be a place for this child to stow stuff that should not be taken to school.
Purse will be a place to stow stuff this child takes from others at school.
Purse will become a garbage can with a strap.

Let me tell you dear reader, what I told this child during said discussions. I told her that she had a lovely, spacious backpack. One whole section of her backpack is devoted to little compartments for every sort of necessity. She can easily, and neatly, stow her calculator, sanitary products, Chapstick, pencils, pens, etc. There is no need for a separate bag. Not that she doesn't own and use several cute purses....just not at school.

Next problem. The discussion about taking things from others. My daughter is not allowed to take ANYTHING from others at school. This is because she cannot be trusted to keep her hands off other people's belongings, and also because she begs. Like, she will ditch her own perfectly good pencils, look pathetic, and beg others to give her pencils because her Mom won't give her any. She also begs for sweets, and she knows we prefer she not take food that did not come from home. I say prefer, because I cannot stop her when she is at school. She will mainly do, and say, and eat what she can get away with. But the rule is, "Don't even take a pencil, or a stick of gum from anyone at school." If you need something, you can get it from at home. So I found LOTS of stuff, including pencils and gum wrappers in her purse, that definitely did not come from home. She says she found "most of it" on the floor.

Next problem. I found numerous items from home that did not belong to her, plus items that she did own, but she had been told not to take to school.

Next problem. The discussion about pencils and pens. I had instructed this child about accumulating pencils and pens, and the fact that she did not need to. She did not need to run out with all of my pencils and pens. She did not need to run out with all her siblings' writing utensils. She did not need to beg for them at school. We arrived at the rule of three and three. Three pencils and three pens were the absolute limit. I did NOT want to find more than three of each in her possession. When she needed a new one, all she had to do was ask, and I would supply her with it. Guess how many pencils and pens she had in her sack. Forty-one. That would be thirty-five writing utensils over the limit.

Next problem. Trash can with a strap. This bag had FORTY-ONE sharp pencils and open pens rolling around inside of it. Along with all manner of food wrappers, and wadded up papers, and dirt. There was enough dirt in the bottom of the bag to pot a small plant. Anything in the bag which may have been worth saving was covered in pencil and ink marks, wrinkled and ripped, and just plain filthy.

So for weeks, my daughter has been doing her own little thing, and chalking up every day as a bag lady, as her own private little RAD victory. No one thing seems like a big deal. No one thing is. Even the sum total of it doesn't add up to much. Until you realize that this is a child who will always choose to go left if I tell her it would be better to go right. That she will always choose to go left again and again, if by chance I can't see her doing it, even if it isn't working. That she will always lie about what direction she has been going when I ask. That she will consider it a win, every time she manages to veer left, no matter how much failure or loss she may suffer as a result. That she will hate right, just because I suggested it.

What's in it for me?

2010-03-28T13:34:00.004-05:00

I was staring at my blog just now, and noticing the quote in the margin. I was staring at the words "selfless service". In the past if you had asked me to comment on what I believed that meant, I would have expounded at length about what selflessness meant. Sometimes these days, my brain gets a bit stuck. It feels numb. I looked at the word selfless today, and I saw it as pretty self-explanatory. If you wanted me to teach a class on selfless service today, I would say this:

"There's nothing in it for you. You will work hard, and receive nothing in return. You will be tired, but there will still be more work to do. You will be discouraged, and no one will stop to encourage you. You will feel like you are failing, and yet you will keep trying. There is nothing in it for you."

I'm pretty much okay with that now, but it doesn't make me the life of the party oftentimes. I'm okay with that too. Being the life of the party is highly overrated. Last year around this time I injured my back. It was pretty bad. I couldn't even get myself to the toilet without breaking out in a cold sweat. I prayed to God, that if I could just get up and walk again, and get back to my work without the pain, I would be happy. And I am. I don't love always having my shoulder to the wheel, and being so tired it hurts. But I love that I can. I don't love that I am raising children that are largely unattached to any human being, and that they would just as soon be anywhere else but here. But I love that I can. I don't like that I find myself missing my husband and our relationship the way it used to be. But I love that I'm missing him, not resenting him.

Waiting For a Bus

2010-03-21T16:47:00.004-05:00

This blog post was originally posted on February 17, 2009, on a blog I am gradually shutting down. If you've already read it, feel free to find something else to do. Otherwise, enjoy.

I think foster care must be kind of like waiting for a bus. You sit at the bus stop and you wait and wait. People told you that a bus was coming, and maybe they even told you what time to expect it, but the bus seems as though it never comes. You don't have a bus schedule, so you don't really know for sure about anything. People come and go at the bus stop. Sometimes you overhear them talking about when the bus will come, and it sounds as though they have different information than they gave you. Sometimes the bus comes, and the people get on the bus, but then they won't let you on because, they say, "This isn't your bus."

Different children have different reactions to spending so much time at the bus stop. If I talk to my fearful child about the bus stop the dialogue goes like this:

Me: So how did you feel about waiting at the bus stop for so long?
Child: I didn't like it. The bus stop was scary.
Me: Why was it scary?
Child: I don't know. It just was.
Me: Were you happy when the bus came?
Child: Kind of. But I was kind of scared of the bus.
Me: But the bus brought you here.
Child: It did? Oh yeah. I was scared when the bus brought me here. But now I'm not scared anymore.
Me: Do you think about being at the bus stop?
Child: Sometimes. It makes me worry I will have to go back and wait there. I don't like to think about it.

If I talk to my impaired child the dialogue goes like this:

Me: So, you were at that bus stop for a long time.
Child: Uh huh.
Me: How did you feel when you were at the bus stop?
Child: Ummmm.....bored?
Me: I don't know, maybe. Did you hope the bus would come?
Child: Once the bus came and took me to the pool to go swimming! It was awesome!
Me: Did it take you back to the bus stop?
Child: (sadly) Yeah. I wanted to live at that pool!
Me: But you were at the bus stop for a long time. Tell me about that.
Child: Well.... they gave me sandwiches to eat at the bus stop. They were salami sandwiches on wheat bread. With mustard. I love mustard.
Me: So that's what you remember about the bus stop?
Child: Yup! Those sandwiches were GOOD!

But these are the children who wait at the bus stop, who largely get ignored. In general, they wait quietly. Then there is another daughter of mine, who is highly intelligent, easily bored, and demands some control over her destiny. I can see her pacing the bus stop impatiently, grilling each person waiting for any information about scheduled buses. I can see her demanding a bus schedule, and cursing the idiots who run this whole bus thing. All the while she has a pretty clear picture of what her bus should look like and where she thinks it is taking her. But the problem is, it never seems to come. Over a short period of time, this child gets angry and fed up. She decides her bus is never coming, but she'll be damned if all these other people are going to get to ride buses and she won't.

She begins muscling her way onto "wrong buses". She knows they're wrong buses, and she knows they won't take her where she wants to go, but riding a wrong bus is better than sitting at that stupid bus stop. Eventually riding wrong buses becomes a way of life. Finding yourself in a strange part of town, being lost, figuring out how to get back to the bus stop....it all becomes an adrenaline soaked pattern. Sometimes you meet cool people on those buses. Often they give you things because you are lost. Most of the time their sandwiches are better than the ones they give you at the bus stop.

The problem is this, when your bus finally comes, it looks lame. It's a boring older bus, headed for Boringsville, and this child isn't sure if she really wants to ride that bus after all. But they grab her and hustle her onto that bus, and off she goes. No more bus stop. When she gets to her destination, she discovers that buses generally don't stop there. She wanders around trying to get lost, but the folks from Boringsville always seem to find her and bring her back. She spends a lot of her time trying to figure out a way to get back to the bus stop, but she just can't, so she is angry and frustrated all of the time.

The folks at Boringsville don't think it's so boring anymore. In fact they never really did, but now it's way more interesting than even they could have imagined. Sometimes they wish they had a bus stop in Boringsville, so that Mom and Pop Boring could get out of town. But then, that might be way too tempting. But I did hear that some of those buses go to some pretty nice places, and they've got good sandwiches too!

Rock Star Foster Children

2010-03-21T16:32:00.003-05:00

This blog post originally aired on February 15, 2009, on another blog I am gradually shutting down. If you've already read it, feel free to skip, otherwise enjoy.

I suppose I am going to put my neck out on this one, but I've been thinking about it, and living with it for long enough to think maybe I am onto something. I read a lot of books and blogs, about adoption and foster care. There are some prevailing themes that seem to arise in all the stories I read. First, it seems that drama is in the air, everywhere and at all times. Foster children with behavioral issues seem to be the prevalent topic of conversation. Countless pages are devoted to the dissection of such behaviors....why do they happen, when do they happen, how do we stop them from happening? And since I am living in a house with more than one such child, I am well aware that not all children with this sort of history have behavior problems. One of my children has very few, and almost none that threaten or annoy. Another of my children has plenty to annoy, but cannot help herself at times, because her brain is miswired and does not process her world like it should do. But one child of mine is a drama queen. Not surprisingly, this was the child who came to us out of therapeutic care, with a string of labels and a bunch of meds.

When this child was in care, she was courted by countless school workers who tried to get her to work up to her potential, which is considerable. She had weekly appointments with her therapist, who would take her to fast food joints and "just talk". She readily admits she spent the time spinning yarns, and yanking said therapist's chain. She had regular visits from case workers who came to check up on her, or take her to regular doctor appointments. Her file seems to indicate that she had more doctor visits in a year, than any of my bio children have had in their entire lives, though she is as physically healthy as any of them. On any of these treks, she could expect another trip to the local fast food restaurant. Let's not even talk about Christmas. Any number of folks had allotments of monies to buy this child gifts, not to mention the charitable organizations that collected gifts and hosted parties.

In her last three years of foster care, this child formed a pattern of behavior that in her mind "worked for her". She misbehaved in some outrageous way. She would be scooped up and taken to some crisis handling party who would threaten, cajole, medicate her...but in the end, basically give her huge amounts of undivided attention. While her crisis was being "managed", her foster family would be declaring that they did not want her back, thank you very much, and dispatching her belongings to the next therapeutic home. She would arrive there in the following days, probably sad and scared, but certainly looking and playing the part to the hilt. This new family would move heaven and earth to make her feel welcome and cared for. And so she would be happy for a short time, and the cycle would begin again. Because as soon as the novelty wore off, and the "Christmas morning" happiness began to slip away, this child would become bored. When this child is bored, she becomes truculent and sullen, convinced the world is against her. She begins making unreasonable demands; on your time, attention, resources. If you don't hop to it, she begins escalating. And when I say escalating, I am quite sure any of you who live in this little world know precisely of what I am speaking. Her escalation usually eventually results in a visit from law enforcement or someone in the mental health field.

Except the thing is this: I don't think she's criminal or crazy. I just think she's bored, and she loves the adrenaline rush, and all that intoxicating attention. Pity is the most addictive of drugs, but a stern talking-to is better than nothing at all. Therapy is fun, but scared straight is at least somewhat interesting.

And then she got adopted, by this painfully boring family, and as time rolls on, this family takes less and less notice of her drama. In the beginning she could get quite a rise out of all of us, but as her routines begin to resemble TV reruns, folks just got busy doing other things. Everything she had ever tried to "get out" just does not seem to work here. At the present time the jury is out on how she will handle this state of affairs. Currently she is very angry, and using every ounce of her considerable energy to let everyone know this. Maybe she will remain angry, and blow out of here in a few years, shaking the dust of this horrible place off her feet. Maybe she will settle down and realize boring is not so bad, and there are more than a few reasons to like this place. It's anybody's guess. But that's not really what I am theorizing about in this post.

What I am pondering is, what would have happened to this child if she had remained on the track she was on? And I'll line that up with another topic of discussion that comes up frequently. The topic is the problem of young adults aging out of foster care, and the high incidence of said young people becoming rapidly involved with the law, mental health, or the social welfare system. It seems like so many people are trying so very hard to help, pouring huge sums of money into helping, and still holding their heads, wondering why the cycle goes on and on.

I can't say exactly, but I know my daughter well enough to take a pretty good stab at what I think her future may have looked like had she remained in foster care long enough to age out. I predict that her pattern would have continued through her teen years, with her crises getting bigger and more spectacular each year. It's likely she would have been parenting her own child before reaching the ripe age of eighteen. But when she did, what a shock it would be to her system, to suddenly find that no one was pleading with her to continue her education and make the most of her potential. Instead, she would be expected to do like any other boring citizen, making their way in this world. She would be expected to work, and pay her way, and find a place to live. If she needed to go to a doctor, she must call and make an appointment, and get there on her own steam. If she had a big spectacular crisis, she could tell it to her friends and hope someone cared enough to help.

And that would really not do for the drama queen. In no time at all, she would recollect that acting crazy or criminal gets you lots of attention. She'd fall back on all she had learned in foster care, to get her fix of adrenaline, and heaven help her babies while she took this wild ride. Mix in the inevitable substance abuse and partying, and the occasional low life love interest, and she would have all the ingredients needed to keep the drama coming for years and years. And all the well meaning helpers would be holding their heads in their hands, wondering why the cycle keeps repeating itself. But I would wonder if she was repeating the mistakes of her first family, the one she was born into...or her second family, the institution of foster care.

Epilogue: Over one year later, I can say the drama has settled down considerably. She is still a drama queen, but does not seem to feel the need to make as much crazy, so I am encouraged to hope we are on the right track for the future.

Love Stories

2010-03-17T18:23:00.006-05:00

This china doll belonged to my grandmother as a girl. She named her Vivien. For many years she lived with my Aunt, and now she lives with me. Some day my children will fight over whose house she will go to live at.

The other day, my friend Christine blogged about the fact that everyone has a story, and that until we understand this, we should be slow to stand in judgment. I believe that this is indeed true, and I have been thinking about it a great deal. Something that has come to mind, is this; we must be careful when "hearing" a person's story, to understand who is doing the telling of it. I suppose it's often best to hear the story first hand, but this isn't always practical. Some people just won't tell you their story, and others can't.

My grandmother died this past week, and I have been thinking about her story; the parts she told me, and the parts that I have been told. I realize that I never really knew my grandmother all that well. She was one of those who never told much of her own story. She told you her opinions about things, and she had quite a few. She told you stories about things that had happened far into the past, but she never revealed much about her own story. The story of my grandmother mostly came to me through the telling of my close family members. Her story was not told with love, and so it came like this. "Your grandmother is a nasty, opinionated woman. Don't get on her bad side or she'll write you a nasty letter." Or like this. "Your grandmother is a greedy, selfish thing. If you give her something nice you'll never see it again. She'll just hoard it away." Or this. "Your grandmother doesn't like to spend time with you. She just wants chat you up, to find out what's going on here at home, behind closed doors. She's nosy."

As I got older, I learned to question this steady flow of information, but I never had anything with which to replace it. Then, several years ago I talked at length with someone who told my grandmother's story with love. The story went like this. "Your grandmother cares very much for you. She prays for you often, and loves to hear about what you are doing." And like this. "Your grandmother is afraid a lot. She lived through a lot of hardships, and was mistreated by people who should have cared for and protected her. She is afraid to enjoy the nice things she is given because she is afraid of not having enough later on."

This is what I know about my grandmother. I know that when I was a child she always made me something beautiful every year for Christmas, on her old treadle sewing machine. I know that she always made me "Cambric tea" and Lornadoones when I would come to visit her. She would spend hours walking our family through her gardens, and she grew the most beautiful peonies. She always had dogs, so her house always smelled a little doggy, and she treated them like they were her babies. She put plastic on everything, to keep it clean from the dogs and "your grandfather's smelly pipe". She even had plastic lace curtains in her bathroom. She had everything in her kitchen wrapped up in a plastic bag with a twisty tie, and everything she ever bought, she labeled with the date and the price. I suppose I might have joked with her, that they have medicine for that, if I had known her better. She had marvelous taste in fabric, and I have many of her unused pieces in my bins, marked with the date and price, of course. She always wore her hair long, twisted up into a crown of braids on top of her head, covered up with a kerchief, and she was quite vain about her trim self, her hair, her teeth. She would cover her mouth like a school girl, and giggle when she thought something was funny, self consciously, as if she was afraid to be noticed too often. She never wanted to hold babies, but would sit with her purse clutched on her lap, watching their every move. I could never picture her holding her own babies, or taking care of little children.

Now she is gone, and in the next few days I will travel to her funeral. I am certain I will hear more of her story, from those who loved her, and those who did not. I hope that when I am old, folks will know my story because I shared it freely with them. I hope that when I cannot do the telling, that it will always be told by someone who loves me.

Stitches of Love

2010-03-16T17:19:00.003-05:00

This entry was originally posted on January 30, 2009 on a blog I am gradually closing down. If this is a rerun, feel free to skip. If not, enjoy.

This is a post about why I don't quilt (much) anymore. Once, long ago, back when I was younger, more energetic, had stars in my eyes, was much more insecure, when time hung heavy on my hands, and I had not yet acquired so many children...I used to make quilts. I had this idea that quilts equaled love, and all the endless hours I spent meticulously cutting, piecing, tying, quilting, were evidence of my deep and abiding affection. I had visions of my loved ones feeling my embrace every time they wrapped themselves in my creation. I foresaw into the future a day when my offspring would be telling some grandchild, or great grandchild, how I had made this beautiful enduring quilt, and maybe they would make cookies, and tell stories about what a great Mom/Grandma I am (because you don't think I expect to be dead already, do you?). I also have to confess that I really liked to impress people. I liked the idea, that when people came into my home, they saw these expressions of my skill and love, displayed at the foot of a bed or over the back of a rocker. Wow! What a Mom. You guys sure are lucky.

But time marches on, I have become the Mom of more children, and I don't find myself pulling out the quilting supplies very often. In fact, none of my adopted children have a quilt, made with love, by me. Partly this is because I can't EVER get involved with anything that does not in some way involve them, and dragging out my sewing machine is just a signal for them to set their hair on fire. And partly this is because they don't place a whole lot of value on things like that. They blow through belongings like they are disposable, and a Disney Princess blanket from Target makes them happier. Also, it is partly a time issue. My life is busy right now, just keeping the basics rolling along, and at the end of the day I'm more tired than I used to be, so I go to bed instead of sewing.

But there is something deeper still. I no longer care if I am impressing anyone with my mothering prowess. I realize this about myself, that I spent hours hunched over a cutting board, or a sewing machine, or with needle in hand...and all the while I was trying to escape my children. I would be snappish and withdrawn, and I would expect my children to suffer that gladly because I was making them love and a heritage. And of course no one could fault me for this because I had all this beautiful, tangible evidence of my love draped all over my house.

I still love the quilts I once made. We use them every day. I still love beautiful fabric, and every now and then I get a creative itch. I see a day in the future when I will not be buried in child rearing, and laundry, and therapy. A day when I will once more sit down and create beautiful things with love. It will be nice then, because I will not hold onto the things like trophies. They will not have strings attached that say, "You better appreciate all I do for you, you ungrateful little punk." And I will only ever give them to the people I wish to, and I will never feel pressured or obligated to give them to anyone else. I will probably need more therapy before that day comes.

To Go or Not To Go

2010-03-16T17:07:00.003-05:00

This entry was originally posted January 29, 2009 at another blog which I am gradually shutting down. It addresses some challenges regarding travel and visits with extended family. It is purely hypothetical, and does not reflect a desire to avoid my loving family. :)

One of the challenges of growing your family, is that as time goes by, and your numbers increase, your family is not as portable as they once were. Going to the library resembles a military maneuver, and getting to church may result in some rather godless behavior. Family vacations become a financial and logistical nightmare, and visiting distant family and friends is often challenging. Our growing families are more expensive to transport (larger vehicles or more plane tickets), more expensive to feed, and more difficult to accommodate for overnight stays.

Enter older adopted children. They add a whole new spin to the idea. Older adopted children are often frightened or stressed by changes to their normal routine. A three day visit to Grandma's may actually be very traumatic for them. Grandma is a near stranger, and her home is a very strange, unfamiliar place. Some older adopted children have significant attachment issues, and taking them out of their home environment, where Dad and Mom are the "dispensers of all things good" can actually send them rocketing backwards in their tentative attachment. Some older adopted children have significant emotional issues, and will use the cover of a visit to practice unhealthy, destructive behaviors.

If you live in an ideal world, Grandma will understand this, and graciously set her wishes to have a Martha Stewartesque family Christmas aside. In your ideal world Aunties and Uncles will understand why you just can't come with sleeping bags and put all the cousins down to sleep on the family room floor. I don't really want to have to elaborate on this, just go ahead and let your imagination run wild. In my ideal world, the family would come to us, in smaller contingents, and follow our lead about how things should be arranged, how long the visit should last, and what the agenda should hold.

But I don't live in an ideal world, and I suspect very few of us do. Sometimes people can take these changes personally, as if by setting out to meet your family's needs, you have also set out to trample upon their dreams and desires. I don't quite know what to do with this. I'm not sending any of my kids back, and last I checked, it's going to be quite a few years before Beloved and I travel by ourselves. I know I am rather unapologetically opinionated about how this is to be. I don't really believe I have much choice in the matter. Okay...the choice may have been there when conceiving or adopting the little critters, but the deed is done guys! I suppose I might be interpreted as unyielding and selfish. Maybe I am, but isn't that part of being a Mom sometimes? A good one anyhow?

Purse Party

2010-02-22T14:23:00.002-05:00

A good time was had by all...I hope. The "banana flambam" was eaten up, and we only had to pluck one small child out of the litter box. So far fourteen out of twenty purses are gone, and I still have several ladies that want one, plus I haven't bought mine. We have additional custom jewelry orders, and chocolate orders for Easter. I am hoping to wrap up the party by the end of the week, and send the first check. Then we will fill the additional jewelry and chocolate orders and send another check after Easter. Really, as long as we have customers, we'll make more.

Queen B, your bags are on the way! I won't have to beat people off of your Chelsea bag anymore!

Tomorrow's the Big Day

2010-02-20T21:57:00.004-05:00

Last night I was pondering how nice and quiet things were. One of my children was at work, two were grounded, and two were angry at me. One was angry because I caught them lying, and the other was angry because I had found out about them being excessively, unbelievably rude to an elder. I'm not really sure what I did to deserve their wrath, since I didn't do more than discuss it with either one, but that's just how those things go. The good news was, they were both punishing me by hiding out in their rooms. Yeah! Hubby and I got the living room, and most of the evening, all to ourselves. It was nice to just hang out and talk about nothing important.

Today was nice too. We had tons to do to get ready for our big girlie party tomorrow. We are selling purses, and jewelry, and homemade chocolates, all to benefit Haitian relief work. Since the boys have several Celtic dance gigs coming up (for obvious reasons), we have dance in the morning. This meant I was really scrambling to get the house company clean, prep food, prep for the party, make chocolates, and encourage the girls to finish up their jewelry creations. What a breath of fresh air, to hear them giggling over their work, and making offers to help me in any way. One child said, "Mom, I'm just trying to stay out of your way, but let me know if I can hep you." Am I dreaming?

How is it that we can swing back and forth between such harmony and kindness, and such backbiting and squabbling? If only I could figure out a way to make the pendulum stick over on the kindness side. If I do, I'll make a million dollars teaching it. In the meantime, wish us luck. Purses, bling, and chocolate...what more could a girl want?

A Blog I Read Sometimes

2010-02-10T09:00:00.002-05:00

I only read occasionally. I find the subject matter difficult. I applaud their work with malnourished children in Haiti, but the accounts of what they deal with daily are grueling. Now I read this, and find it grueling as well. How can injustice like this happen, especially at the hands of those who are sent to help? There are many things I do not understand.

The List

2010-01-29T16:46:00.002-05:00

Here is a list of paperwork we have to prepare so they can begin to process the update of our homestudy. Bear in mind that we are already approved as a resource family, and have completed three adoptions in a little over the past year.

Application (about 25 pages)
Autobiographies (long form and single page form)
2 criminal record checks
6 child abuse clearances
2 FBI clearances
Physical exams
Five letters of reference
Letters from all household members
CPR/first aid for infant/child/adult
Copy of driver's license
Copy of car insurance
Copy of car registration
Copy of homeowner's/renter's insurance
Copy of marriage certificate
Copy of birth certificate
Current water test
Copy of SS card
Copy of pay stub
Copy of credit report
Copy of educational certificates
Vaccinations of pets
2-3 photos of family and home

Yup! That's how you get the ball rolling. Bear in mind that the child abuse clearances (6 for our fam) want you to list every address since 1975, and every person that you have had live in your home, with their full name, age, sex, and relationship to you. They let you attach additional sheets! Considerate of them, doncha think?!

How I Feel About Adoption

2010-01-28T22:22:00.003-05:00

Currently, we are updating our homestudy, so that we can remain an active resource family with our agency. Since our first study was done, there are quite a few more bits and pieces they require. One such new requirement is that each member of the extended family that resides in the home write a letter explaining how they personally feel about adoption. The prize for "Most Entertaining" goes to... drum roll please... Boo.

"I feel that adopting a child would be an excessively excellent idea. Although we have a plethora already, the ****** house is always open. Children would be taught endless virtues, and also the value of hard work. Education, integrity, and honesty are also taught. Guaranteed (with a little hard work, of course) children who were adopted by the ****** parents would be totally transformed. Take me, for instance. Just like everything else, I feel that adopting a child would also be a whole lot of work. The adjusting, the money, the time, the money, would be very strenuous. All in all, this is how I feel about adopting a child."

Apparently the money is a double concern, and did I mention that if you were to be adopted by our family, you would read a lot of Jane Austen?

Here We Go!

2010-01-24T19:33:00.003-05:00

We are moving along with our plans to make some cash for Haiti.

Phase one, giant cookies. We make this pizza sized, colossal cookie as a gift now and then. It's very popular with just about everyone. We're taking orders for Valentine's week, and making them with Valentine M&M's. I'm going out tomorrow to scout material costs so I can price them.
Phase two, purse parties. My dear eldest daughter and I are hosting home parties to sell purses made by Haitian seamstresses, to help them be self supporting and to help fund the relief effort.
Phase three, bring on the bling. My three youngest daughters will use their jewelry making skills and creativity to make (truly) gorgeous jewelry. They plan to sell this and send all the profits to the Haitian relief effort.

This effort involves all of the children in baking, creating, selling, and maybe even a few unglamorous jobs like dish washing and house cleaning. Our plan is to be done by the end of February and see how it goes. Then, who knows. Maybe phase four?

Nothing Matters...Everything Matters

2010-01-17T08:41:00.003-05:00

This past week began with a friend from Bloggyland, running the Disney marathon to raise money for a mission in Haiti. It is a ministry to pregnant women (among many other things), and they were trying to raise the funds for an emergency vehicle that would reliably transport women to the center when they were in labor, as well as other emergencies. Many women, with no reliable transportation of any kind, end up delivering at home, or on the street as they try to make their way on foot to the center. Often the babies are delivered in the dark, as there is no reliable electrical power either. That was Haiti on a good day. In the eleventh hour, our family decided that we wanted in. We wanted to donate a little of the excess we enjoy, and so we hit that Paypal button, and watched our in-the-computer friends with even more interest. I had been checking the blogs to see how the event went. It went well. The huge sum of money was raised. There is to be an emergency vehicle, praise God. Next came a blog about unwinding in Disneyworld with the family, and I could smile, and remember doing the same. Then came a blog to pray for Haiti, and everything changed.

How hard to be in the "happiest place on earth", and be filled with fear and grief for loved ones in Haiti. I cannot imagine. I have no ties to Haiti, not really. I have friends who have adopted Haitian children. I read blogs about several missions to Haiti. I have friends and family members who traveled to Haiti on short term mission trips. I have sent a few dollars throughout the years, to help here and there. But even I cannot pull myself away from the news reports. I scan the mission blogs for ways to help. I consider ways to pull some money together. It seems like so little in the face of it all. It almost seems as though it doesn't matter.

I am acutely aware of how comfortable I and my family am. I have better medical care for my pets than the people of Haiti have for their children. I have so much food, that I have to clean my fridge of leftovers...well not much, but some. Everything in my life screams, "You have more than you need." I am tempted to feel guilty, but guilt just makes me want to shut it off and feel hopeless. It must matter that I am here, living this blessed life. I need to take stock of the many good things we enjoy, and not forget them. I know I can pull together some money, and money is probably all I can do to help. I could write a check and mail it off. But I am smart, and able bodied, and I have time (no really I do). Is there a way to multiply that money so that it keeps growing? Is there a way to draw my coddled American family into the labor? Six more able bodies, and mostly able minds? I'm not sure yet, but I'm thinking about it.

I'm in a Good Mood...

2010-01-10T20:47:00.002-05:00

...and gosh darn it, no one's going to knock me out of it. I've had a hugely productive week and an even more productive weekend. Not that it looks like much is going on, because most of it was paperwork, but as you know, THAT is a huge thing. I challenge anyone to ask me for one single scrap of paper that I can't put my hands on, and quick. Plus I threw a lot of stuff away too, which is always therapeutic for me. Friday I spent most of the day cleaning the girl quarters...even crawling under beds and hauling furniture away from baseboards. On Saturday I ventured into the black hole that is boy territory, and after about eight hours, felt as though I could breathe in there. Lest I mislead...neither set of rooms was a terrible mess, only disorganized, with too much stuff. My children cannot part with anything, and they must have it all close at hand. I am a minimalist, and would cheerfully strip down to a mattress on the floor. My family keeps me in check, and so we have furniture. This week brings more jobs to tick off the list, more papers to file, more rooms to shake out and reorganize. It's really cold here, and my little goats don't like it. I don't like it. Maybe I am trying to hasten the coming of Spring with all my cleaning.

I Love School...

2010-01-10T20:43:00.001-05:00

Second verse, same as the first, not much better, not much worse...

Happy New Year!

2009-12-31T14:43:00.004-05:00

What a nice, snowy, quiet day on the mountain. Everything is wrapped in about three inches of soft, fluffy white stuff. The house smells of chocolate. I made two different kinds of brownies to take to our party tonight. The turtle has a fresh clean tank for 2010. The children are napping, so as to be fresh and rested for the long night of festivity. I am getting ready to go stand in a hot shower for a ridiculously long period of time. Happy New Year to all my friends and family...those I see face to face, and those who live in my computer. May God bless you with an adventure or two in the next twelve months.

Why Bother?

2009-12-29T13:48:00.005-05:00

I have a lot of thoughts kicking around in my head today. It has been an uneventful holiday season so far. This is a biggie, as this time of year is usually a signal to some of my children to self destruct, crash and burn, and try to take all of us down with them as they spiral into the frozen dirt. Imagine my surprise when so much of the holiday hoopla has passed, and no fireworks...yet. I am well aware that we are not out of the woods yet. I am also fully anticipating at least one child to tank as soon as school vacation is over. But it has been nice while it has lasted, and I am going to keep on basking in the glow as long as I can.

Yesterday I was pondering how well Lala has done over vacation. She has about a week and a half off, and the first third was spent in the bustle of preparing for Christmas, celebrating, and cleaning up. Then camp got into gear on Sunday, and she has (unwillingly) been going to work at the kitchen with her Dad, helping out as she can, and learning some of the jobs her older siblings usually do. She has been "early to bed and early to rise", with lots of structured activity in between. She has whined, and even wept over her lot, as she would prefer to lay on the couch and watch TV until her eyeballs fall out, or even just sleep all day, rather than WORK. Not that anyone else around here does such things, but she always thinks of herself as a special case. Today I watched her bustle about the kitchen, helping her Dad assemble some sandwiches in a hurry, and although she still gets in the way a bit, she is clearly trying to be helpful, and feels like she is doing something that matters. Tomorrow our campers will leave after lunch, and we will slip back into party and relaxation mode. The final third of vacation will wrap up with a typical Sunday at church and quiet winding down to school on Monday. I don't foresee any major bumps in the road.

Yesterday I was hanging out in the camp kitchen with beloved husband and Lala. It was between meals, and we had a few quiet moments to chat. Lala had made herself a bag of microwave popcorn, and was angrily stuffing it into her mouth piece by piece, to show me how peeved she was because she was grounded and couldn't go off with her sisters and a friend. I asked her why she was angry. She couldn't tell me. I asked her why she was grounded. She couldn't tell me. I asked her how long she was grounded for. She couldn't tell me. I felt so bad for her in her chronic state of confusion, that I decided to GO OVER IT ALL AGAIN. Slowly, painfully, excruciatingly, we went over the series of bad choices that had landed her on extreme grounding. Then we went over the string of bad choices she made that had further compounded and extended her grounding. We reviewed the rules, and discussed the warnings that had been issued. We talked over her debts, and why she owed money (restitution for damages), and how she would pay them.

When all was said and done, she admitted that none of it really mattered to her because:

She was never going to get off grounding because she would never make good choices.
She was never going to pay off her debts because she would just keep making new ones.
She thought we were all really mean, and she wished she had gotten a nicer family.

She did concede that her sisters didn't find themselves in a similar predicament, that they actually seemed pretty happy. Her explanation? We like them better, and we are much nicer to them. Though she did concede that they had to obey the same rules, and pay restitution when they destroyed things. Hmmm. Makes perfect sense to me.

At one point, when we were discussing her desire for a nicer family, I just broke into a monologue, in my sweetest, kindest Mom voice. I told her that when she laid down in her bed at night, she should thank God for giving her the most perfect Mom for her. That she was so lucky to get such a stubborn, ornery Mom like me, that WOULD NEVER GIVE UP ON HER, no matter how silly she might be. I also told her HOW LUCKY I am, to have her for my daughter, because she always makes my life so INTERESTING. I thanked her for giving me so many interesting things to do, like emailing her teachers, and scouring school websites for missing assignments. Like watching her every minute, to be sure she wasn't doing anything too..."interesting". And all the while, she was shaking her head back and forth harder and harder, trying not to grin. As I rattled on and on, she kept saying "No! You would LIKE it if I stopped! You would be HAPPY if I stopped." And yet again, I realize that this child never, ever wants me to like anything about her, and never, ever wants to make me happy in any way, shape, or form.

Right on cue, Boo galloped into the kitchen and demanded to know what was so funny, and what were we laughing about? I didn't even have time to come up with an answer, when she went on in an accusatory and suspicious tone. "You and Dad are so weird. You're so HAPPY all the time lately. It's not normal...but I like it!" And with that, she galloped back out the door, leaving her father and me laughing, and Lala huffing indignantly, and declaring, "I think you LIKE it when I'm in trouble!"

Last night I was laying in my bed, listening to the wind rip the roof and the tree branches off, and turned on the TV to keep me company, since beloved was snoring already. There was this horrible show on about hoarders. I say horrible in regard to the subject matter, not about the show itself. There was this horrible woman living in a hell hole of her own making. They actually found two of her missing cats, dead, in the piles of refuse. Her son and daughter had arranged the whole intervention because they couldn't stand to see their aging mother living like this, plus her house was going to be condemned. It had been going on for years and years. The daughter had actually raised her brother, because child services had removed him from the house when he was a child. The mother had never cleaned up the house and gotten him back. The whole time everyone was working, the mother sat out on the porch in a rocking chair and *itched about how this was all someone else's fault, namely the daughter, who seemed to have done a great deal for her ungrateful, mean mother. The clinical psychologist on the case said something to the effect of, "As long as she blames other people for her situation, she will never have the impetus to change."

When I heard that, it dropped like a stone into my brain. Lala wakes up every day and blames everyone else for her situation. She doesn't even care if her accusations and blame casting make sense. She really believes we are a mean family. She believes we like her sisters better, and treat them nicer. She wishes she could have gotten lucky, and gotten a "better" family. She thinks her teachers at school are mean too. She thinks they like the other students better. She thinks her classmates' grades are higher and they get along with one another, because they are "lucky". Why would a girl like her even bother to try? Her family hates her, her teachers hate her...everyone hates her.

Loc me up...and throw away the key!

2009-12-27T09:15:00.007-05:00

Some of the fall out from our adults only vacation in early November, is only now becoming evident. As mentioned previously, one of our children had some particularly spectacular misbehavior. None of it was particularly straightforward or overt, being the passive aggressive gal she is, but it was spectacular none the less. What I cannot fathom is the pure meanness of so much of it. Here is one such lingering tale.

One of our daughters has locs, which she has been growing out for a couple of years. In the beginning I tended them, but over time she has taken over most of their care. Though a low maintenance hairdo, they do require some work, and they most especially need to be kept clean and moisturized, especially if you want to avoid smelling like a wet dog. Passive aggressive girl had the most impressive locs of all, but she refused to do one lick of work to keep them, so eventually she opted for a tiny afro that she could care for on her own, and most importantly, did not stink. Though she does not have locs of her own, she does know how to "lock" them, a tedious process of tightening up each loc, about every six weeks or so.

While we were away on vacation girl-with-lovely-locs came out and asked adult-in-charge if she would have time that afternoon to tighten her locs. Adult said, "Why, yes." Then passive aggressive girl said, "Sister, I'll do your locs for you," in her sweetest voice. Loc girl was somewhat surprised at the offer, as PA girl rarely offers to do anything nice for her. She even made sure to clarify to PA girl that she had no means to pay her for doing the chore, but PA girl sweetly stuck to her story that SHE WANTED to do this for Loc girl. At this point all three sisters came to an accord. PA girl would tighten Loc Girl's head in one hour, and adult-sister-in-charge gave the plan her stamp of approval.

Time lapse to one hour later. Loc girl appears with latch hook in hand, but PA girl is lounging on the couch. She says to Loc girl, "I'm feeling soooo lazy...I don't think I'll do your hair after all." And here is where it all breaks down. Loc girl is understandably peeved, but decides to accept this and do her own hair. However, adult sister is disgusted with the turn of events, and decides that PA girl will live up to her promise. Adult sister forces PA girl to make good on her promise, and Loc girl's beautiful locs go on the chopping block. Poor adult sister does not understand that she has just placed the tools for revenge and ultimate meanness into the hands of PA girl, in the form of a latch hook and scissors.

Now there are many ways you can do a crappy job tightening a head of locs. You can be careless, and not tighten some locs, leaving lots of messy loose growth at the scalp. Or you can overtighten a loc, making it thin and vulnerable to breakage. You can "accidentally" tighten two locks together, essentially forming a knot. PA girl did all of these things, and it gets worse. Sometimes as locs grow out, the loose new growth tries to loc to the loc next to it. We call these siamese twins, and we do surgery to separate them. It often just involves gently pulling the two locs apart, winding any loose shorter hairs into the proper loc, and carefully tightening as usual. Sometimes the locs can be stubborn, and no amount of gentle pulling will suffice. Here is where I pull the two locs apart as far as I can, then I take scissors and snip maybe the first two or three hairs of the connection. This is usually enough to cause the whole connection to dissolve, and then we proceed as usual. Since we all lose hairs every day, I figure the snipping of a handful during the tightening process is not much different.

The sad part of the story is that PA girl got scissor happy. Every time she found two locs that were even a tiny bit connected, she pulled out her trusty scissors and hacked to the scalp. Initially this did not show up, but as the weeks went by, Loc girl brought up her concerns with more and more frequency. Her head was a mess. Untightened locs were getting matted at the scalp. Overtightened locs felt weak and thin. But the strangest thing of all, was all this growth of short hair all over her scalp. It was like she was growing an afro amongst her locs. And she was, because PA girl had done more than badly tighten her locs, she had given her a haircut too.

Yesterday I spent several hours repairing Loc girl's locs. I had to carefully separate each loc AND the loose hair around it, grease my fingers up with hair product designed for this job, twist the hair around the shaft of the loc, and then hold it securely while I tightened it to the scalp. Then I had to retwist, resmooth, and clip into place. When I was done, her scalp was clean of fuzzies, and each loc was neat and uniform. I have no doubt that I will have to repeat the process several times, until all the loose growth has fully incorperated itself back into the corresponding loc that it had been chopped out of. I have hope that enough of each original loc remains connected, to allow the whole head to repair itself.

Now the thing that burns me, is that PA girl is delighted with the whole situation. She LOVES that she burned her sister so badly. She LOVES that she stuck it to adult-sister-in-charge. She LOVES that she forced me to spend long hours repairing the damage. For her, it was a win, win, win situation. She won't LOVE that I plan to charge her hourly for the repair job. How much do y'all think my time is worth?

Picnicking in Hurricanes

2009-12-13T17:14:00.010-05:00

Over at Watching the Waters, Corey recently wrote an excellent post about finding joy in our current parenting predicament. She concluded that it was indeed possible to find joy amidst the chaos and frustration, though to be honest, some of our children don't always inspire joyous emotions. The thing that has stuck with me for the last day or so though, was her analogy. She compared living with traumatized children to enjoying a picnic while watching the sky for rain clouds. It's an awesome word picture, and she apparently is one of those lucky people that can actually do that. Or maybe she's trained herself to be able to. The thing that has been rattling around in my head is this; how do we train our other children to enjoy the picnic while watching for rain?

I'm thinking of one of my children in particular. This child wholly embraced the idea of adopted siblings, and quickly made friends and opened their heart to their new sisters. Life was like a big family picnic, until the skies opened up, the wind began to howl, and the lightning tore across the blackened sky. Over and over the day started out sunny, and we all tumbled out the door with a blanket, and picnic basket, and Frisbee. Over and over the frightening storms came, leaving everyone running for cover. Eventually this child gave up on picnics. They said, "No thank you, I prefer not to go out today. I believe it may rain, and I am tired of getting wet. I will do something else, while you all go out and try your picnic again."

Now the weather has improved a bit. We actually go on picnics that don't always get rained out. Sure I still have to keep a close eye on the skies, and it does put a damper on my own enjoyment at times. Sometimes I get cranky and a bit resentful, but on most days I can deal with it. One thing that really bothers me though, is that this one child never wants to come on picnics with us. It makes me sad to remember how much they used to enjoy basking in the sun, eating portable food, throwing the Frisbee. To be honest, all of my homegrown children have become a bit "picnic-shy". The others will still come if I ask them to, but I see their eyes scanning the sky, and they seem ready to run for cover, even as they try to enjoy themselves.

I wonder about this often, but it is idle wondering. There is no going backward, unliving years already gone past. Without a doubt, the choices we made have changed the courses of our sons' and daughters' lives. Maybe those lives would have been better, maybe worse. Without a doubt we have made many mistakes, and our children have suffered because of it. But we also work extremely hard, and make huge sacrifices in the hope that all of their lives will be better.

We live in a culture that idolizes its children. I know my adopted children come from an entirely different culture, but I am not speaking for that culture right now. Our culture says that our children should always head out into sunshine, laden with good things to eat, and fun pastimes to fill their hours. They should always be accompanied by smiling, relaxed adults, who are ready to play with them and cater to their every want and need. There should never be clouds in the sky, so no one should ever have to watch for them, least of all the children. I can see the foolishness in this picture. At the same time, I can see the wisdom of trying to avoid picnicking in a hurricane.

Still Rolling...

2009-12-11T08:22:00.003-05:00

This is an update on my post from here. Currently we are still rolling in much the same manner. I have to admit that I have sung the opera a few times, and fallen into the trap of caring more about her school work than she does. But as I felt the ulcers begin to form in my stomach, I took a deep breath and stepped back. Plus the enormously helpful teachers, also working on their ulcers, told me to take a deep breath and step back. At the moment this child is failing three classes, and is on the edge with at least two more. They are stepping back as well, and letting her see what happens when she refuses to take help, and refuses to do her work. They hope that a dose of failure may inspire her. Truly, I hope I'm wrong, but I don't think so. She hasn't cared one bit about her failures in the past. She also doesn't care one bit that she's been grounded for so long she doesn't remember normal privileges. Not that we don't try, she just works really hard to stay grounded.

It makes me sad to see her do so poorly. It makes me sad to see her teachers running themselves ragged trying to help her. At the same time, I really believe it is so very intentional. It is attachment disorder behavior to the nth degree, and perhaps FASD, but mostly it's a lot of good old fashioned laziness and spite. I find myself scratching my head and wondering...she says she hates it here, she says she can't wait to leave, yet she seems happy about failing and adding another year to her sentence here. So what do we have there? Lack of cause and effect thinking, or very careful cause and effect thinking?

I know she is frightened by her looming adulthood. I know she would rather stay at home all day, and ride bikes, and play in the woods. I know she wants to watch Disney movies, and read Beverly Cleary books, and wear twirly dresses. She says she wants grown up privileges and responsibilities, but we see her reject them every time. So we all ask her, do you want to be a seventh grader forever? I think she's shouting, "Yes!" Quite honestly, I think she would like to be demoted back to about third grade, because seventh grade isn't all that much fun.

What We Do For Fun

2009-12-06T21:05:00.001-05:00

Rama Lama Bang Bang

Caution...whining ahead!

2009-11-20T19:05:00.005-05:00

Yup. I just got back from a week of vacation, and I'm already whining. Hard to believe isn't it? Oh, I'm not whining about vacation. Vacation was divine. It's been more than eighteen years since beloved husband and I have done such a rash thing as leave the old homestead for an entire week, without our entourage. I think we need to do it again much sooner than eighteen years in the future. But...it took me the better part of four days to simply unwind enough to relax and enjoy myself. Not that I wasn't having fun, but creeping, gnawing dread had taken hold of me prior to departure, and it would not let go. The phone calls home didn't help either. The children did a good job trying to convince me to relax and not worry, but I knew there were problems. I had enough quick access to email to know. So just when I had begun to relax, and purpose to not worry and overdiscuss my problem child (or two)...poof, vacation was over. It was time to pack up our honeymoon cottage (new tent) and fly home. I needed another week. Now I'm home digging out from under the Mount Everest of laundry, restocking empty shelves, coaxing my shy cat to love me again. I'm dealing with clingy children, lazy children, naughty children. The aftermath of one child is particularly spectacular. I'm tired, and my sinuses hurt from flying, and I have a mild stomach bug...which might be related to the sinus pressure/headache, or might just be a stomach bug. It's keeping me awake at night, which makes me feel more tired, and more impatient. It makes me want another vacation.

On the one hand, I wonder why I would want to put myself through this, all for the sake of some peaceful time with my good husband. I haven't even whined about what a horrible time we had trying to get ready to go. That week was so challenging I entertained thoughts of canceling. If it would not have cost me cold hard cash to do so, I don't doubt I would have. But then I was there, and it was too far to run back home. I had to stay. Now I'm back, and I have to dig my way back out of this hole. I think I spent the first half of the week resenting the week before, and the last bit resenting what I knew awaited me when I returned. The perfect solution is a two week vacation. I figure I would get at least one full week of pure bliss. Or maybe I would have stretched out my worrying and bitterness. It's hard to say. I think it could have gone either way.

So I leave you with a picture of us looking relaxed and happy, celebrating 23 years. Note to self: don't wait until 41rst anniversary to do it all again, though by then all the children should be out of the house and we might be able to unwind a little faster.

MJ and the Zombie Ballerina

2009-10-31T17:13:00.002-05:00

Wow! I really never thought these two would ever start to get along...but I did suspect that the little one would one day be bigger than the big one.

Cussing Moms and Sticker Charts

2009-10-29T14:03:00.004-05:00

Lately I've been taking the time to read at a blog, which may have put me off in the past. Nah...probably not. Well, maybe a little. There has been some discussion there, about her use of cuss words in her blog posts. I'm not writing this post to comment on that, or to agree or disagree with some of her commenters. I'm just writing this post because reading her blog got a few thoughts kicking around in my head, and that's what usually inspires me to write something down. (So thanks Corey, for getting the dendrites moving.)

I am also writing about sticker charts, because I have seldom experienced such a united sentiment of venom and disdain from the adoption community, than when one mentions the words "sticker chart". Someone should definitely warn the mental health community. Apparently I radiate a certain aura which clearly communicates that I am not a woman to be trifled with, and I have never had a sticker chart suggested to me.

Come to think of it, I think the two things might just go hand in hand. First, because the phrase, "Have you thought of trying a sticker chart?" makes most adoptive moms want to let loose a string of profanity, and second, because both the irrational hatred of sticker charts and the desire to cuss, are expressions of the depths of frustration with which we live each day.

First, my thoughts on sticker charts, first thought when I was a small child. Sticker charts are lame. What is so cool about having to do something HARD, and then "getting" to mark this labor with a sticker? Just give me candy or cash, and maybe we can talk. Yet... sticker charts can be mildly satisfying to an overachiever, because one does understand that a sea of stickers on one's chart, does signify superiority over lowly children with only a neat, modest row of stickers. Of course there is my son, who had his own thoughts on sticker charts. To him, each unfilled blank spot represented an absolute necessity to do a chore, or memorize a verse. Call it an obsession. It ate at him into the night, and he would move heaven and earth, and run over the top of you to get the job done, and get the last sticker neatly seated in its little box. And then he would be done and never think of it again.

Sticker charts make my adopted children yawn, as well they should. They made me yawn when I was a child. Rewarding them with stickers for doing things they DO NOT WANT TO DO seems, well, ridiculous. And telling them that if they accumulate a number of stickers, qualifies them for a reward? Yawn. Unless the reward is I NEVER HAVE TO DO WHAT I DON'T WANT TO DO, don't call me...I'll call you.

Here's how it works in my world. I don't need a sticker chart to remember whether my children are behaving themselves. I am a Mom with a memory like a steel trap. When you do good things that please me, it's like all these shiny star stickers are scattered in my mind. And when you do things that tick me off, it's like someone is digging the shiny stars off with their fingernails. When I look at you I generally see a combination of shiny stars and messy spots where you have been ripping the stars off. Your reward is often tied to how I feel about this state of affairs. Sorry, child of mine, if you don't like it, but that's the way it works with human beings. In fact, it has been proven that my ability to form the word y-e-s, is directly related to the shiny stars and scratchy spots. So maybe I do believe in sticker charts after all.

On to the cussing. I don't generally do it. I don't do it when I blog, or when I write, for that matter. First and foremost, I am completely against using words that are offensive to the awesomeness and beauty of God. But most cuss words don't fall in this category. They are in fact, simply vulgarities. The way they are used in a sentence often seems to defy all rules of grammar or even their generally accepted definitions. Really when you think of it, the way most people commonly swear is downright comical if you translate the statements into non-swear words. My personal opinion about these sorts of swear words, are that they are like exclamation marks. I don't generally use them all that much either, when I write. As my children will testify, this homeschool mom does not allow the use of them. Use words to convey strong emotion, not a string of exclamation marks. In our house, the use of vulgarity will likely result in the same sort of chastisement as the excessive use of exclamation marks; that is to say, you will receive a poor grade, which may result in undesirable consequences.

And now I must confess. Sometimes I have a potty mouth. Sometimes the stuff I deal with is the stuff that elicits strong emotion. But I can't use words to express that, because it would tear down a lot of what I am working so hard to build up. It would make people who don't deal with this sort of stuff stare at me aghast, even if I used the most eloquent words and my best punctuation. So sometimes, not on my blog, and generally not in front of my children or in polite company, I use a cuss word to express my extreme frustration. If I were to write it down here, it would probably have a string of exclamation marks after it. I'm not necessarily proud of it, but I don't lose sleep over it either.

Family Needed

2009-10-09T17:31:00.005-05:00

Go to this blog and read about this little boy. Maybe you or someone you know can help. Maybe you can pray for him and his family.

How We Roll...

2009-10-07T15:32:00.002-05:00

We have a child who struggles in school; not that she struggles to succeed, but that she contends heartily with anyone who tries to make her do her work. She is the queen of "I didn't know" and "I forgot". If she would use a tenth of the energy she uses trying to outsmart her teachers and parents to do her work, she would pass her classes without breaking a sweat. And now she is a teen, and firmly ensconced at the high school, where teachers tend to expect students to be responsible for themselves.

Here is what we do. When she arrives home in the afternoons, she is expected to sit down in the appointed place and work on her homework. There is always work to do, even if it is just review, or extra reading, or an ongoing project. This spot is quiet, and away from the distractions of siblings and any sort of electronics. Mom is at hand if she gets hung up on something. In addition, Mom and Dad have forged regular email contact with teachers, watch school websites for homework info and grades, and are learning the normal routine and regular assignments for most classes. Later, family dinner is served. After dinner, children are free to have their turn in the bath, finish up homework, and engage in quiet activities until bedtime. There is no television or video games allowed on school nights.

Our evenings on school nights are quiet, low key, and geared toward homework, family time, and preparation for the following day. Each morning the children rise with a minimum of prompting, get dressed in clothes laid out and approved the night before, eat breakfast together, have morning prayer, and depart for school with very little fuss or muss, since all the work was done before they retired the night before. Our daughters like this method, because it is highly structured and leaves nothing to chance. They understand what is expected of them, and they do it. They don't ever have to ask if their lunch is packed, clothing is clean, papers signed, homework complete. It always is. They generally leave for school in a tranquil state of mind.

So how in the world can one of these children be failing at school? Because she wants to. Because no matter how much structure and support a family tries to put in place, a child can still choose to fail. They can decide not to do their classwork and homework. They can lie at school about what goes on at home, and lie at home about what goes on at school. They can sit in their homework spot and take three long hours to complete twenty minutes of work. They can pretend they don't understand the material, and write so sloppily that no one can decipher their answers. They can use the toilet every ten minutes, and break their pencil lead in between.

And I am not going to sing the opera I normally sing. I am not going to get drawn into the battle this year. I am just going to keep cooking meals and packing lunches. I'll wash clothes and sign permission slips. I'll check school websites and email teachers encouraging notes. I'll keep the homework spot quiet and stay close by in case I'm needed. And she will fail, and I will feel badly about it. Those parts I can't really change. Pretty much the only part I can decide is whether I will yell and holler, and if I want an ulcer. And I won't, and I don't.

2009-09-25T21:49:00.001-05:00

"...gently in Thy fire I will lie burning;
On Thy potter's wheel I will whirl patient..."

George MacDonald

The Most Wonderful Time...

2009-08-23T08:00:00.002-05:00

I remember a television commercial, back in the days when my homegrown children were small and precious. It played the Christmas song "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year," while parents frolicked and rode carts through a store, gleefully throwing school supplies into their carts, and the children trudged miserably behind them. I thought it was horrible. I couldn't understand why any parent would be happy to see their little ones depart the nest. I just knew I would never feel that way.

And now I find myself humming the same little tune, counting days, and thinking about riding on my shopping cart. Yes, the girlies are going to school this year, and yes, I am happy about it. Well, kind of. I'm sad because I would prefer to have them at home, but I would also prefer a whole lot of other things that definitely aren't going to happen. My first choice definitely is to homeschool, but after almost three years of enormous effort, I have concluded that my girls do not want to be homeschooled. They demonstrate this by their complete disregard for us as their parents...and quite frankly, if your child does not regard you as their parent, and respect your authority, I do not recommend trying to homeschool them. Not unless you enjoy activities like beating your head against walls.

So we are sending them off to school this week, two to the public school, and one to the little private school she went to a year ago. Again...not my first choice, or even my second for that matter, since I would love to send all three to the private school. But alas, Boo is too old for the private school which only goes to grade eight, and LaLa has burned her bridges there, shall we say. They really can't, and shouldn't have to try, to manage her special needs and her not so special behaviors. So it is what it is, and these are the choices we are left with.

To be fair, the folks at the public school have been very kind, and are scrambling to come up with a good plan for both girls. I am hopeful that we will find this to be a positive experience. Of course Boo is getting nervous, so her angry behaviors are ramping up, but she is a smart girl with limitless potential. The school was impressed with her work samples, and feels she can be an excellent student. LaLa is delighted at the new and endless opportunities school will offer her to make bad choices. I tried not to laugh, or even snort when they gave her the pep talk about how she would have to be responsible for herself...behaving, getting to class, writing down assignments, doing her homework. But we'll see. Maybe for once, she'll take the help offered and run with it. Of course we'll have to be careful not to get run down by any of those flying pigs on the way to the bus stop.

'Tater, on the other hand, is thrilled to be going back to her little school, her beloved teacher, her familiar classmates. This time, she will return a grade level ahead, all caught up, having worked very hard to accomplish it. I am happy for her. I am also happy she is going alone, unencumbered and unembarrassed by her sisters' endless behaviors. 'Tater is a quiet girl with a quirky sense of humor, a good student and very eager to please. I suspect she will do very well.

The first day of school comes even before the last days of camp wind down. At the end of it all, the camp gifts us with two weeks of "Stillness", which is really comp time for the crazy hours of the summer season. It will be less than still, since I have a LIST, but I won't start school with the boys until it's over. We'll see the girls off to school in the mornings, and then we'll work and play hard for a few weeks. It will give us time to reconnect with the boys, get caught up on a million things that get neglected all summer, and maybe even slip away by ourselves for a night.

By the end of Stillness I plan to:

Get the girls settled into their school routine
Reconnect with the boys
Finish the LIST
Be ready to begin the school year with the boys
Have a few laughs with my darling husband

It seems like a good plan, and I'm going to work hard to make it happen. We are also employing some new behavioral strategies with the girls, which I may report on later. So far the results have been interesting to say the least. I'll save that for another day.

Thankful Thursday

2009-07-02T08:53:00.001-05:00

Blogged here.

New Post

2009-06-16T20:37:00.001-05:00

I blogged here.

My Lardlump Tookus

2009-06-11T22:00:00.003-05:00

To whom it may concern, my tookus (thanks Queen B) is still laying around because my back is not cooperating with getting back to business as usual. I was gradually up and about for about ten days, but everything began going south, so my doctor restricted me again. Grrr! I plan to have a remarkable recovery in the next week, since we have dance recital, and family coming to visit, and then all the B's coming. I'm definitely not taking all of that laying down!

Out of Order...or something like that.

2009-05-22T19:42:00.009-05:00

Okay. I'm going to warn you, this is going to be a whining blog. The non-whining, bummer free portion of this tale may crop up later on my other blog, but this post is going to have the full sized portion of bummer. Over a month ago, actually the day before Easter, I pulled something in my lower back. I wasn't doing anything ridiculous...really, and I resent you for being skeptical. I was in fact being slightly lazy. I had decided to get out some bins of summer clothing for the children, and said bins were stored behind another row of bins. So instead of moving the first row, I tried to reach over it and extract some rather bulky containers. To make matters worse, it was a tight space, and I had turned my hips sideways while trying to lift up and over. Dumb move. My hip started burning and paining me almost right away. I thought I was being good. I even skipped Easter services and rested up the next day. By Monday it was sore, but I was able to push through the pain and get on with things...until I repopped it out by mid afternoon. Repeat on Tuesday. But after three days or so, I just laid off the lifting and it seemed to get better. So much better that I forgot about the whole annoying episode.

Forgot, that is, until the night before Mother's day. Do you notice a pattern with holidays that fall on Sunday? I was merrily cleaning my bathroom when I bent ever so slightly to reach for a sponge, and I felt my entire lower back shift in a kind of unhealthy, sickening way. Not that it hurt, but somehow I instinctively knew I would not be going to church in the morning. What I did not know, was that I would not being going anywhere but the doctor's office for the better part of two weeks. It seems I had managed to give myself a nice variety pack of lower back trouble, and the pain would take me down quite handily for some time.

And lest you think this post is just about my bum back, oh no! The moral to this story goes much deeper than "lift with your knees". This is a situation we high energy, super organized, "bite off more than we can chew" adoptive Moms must be confronted with. Ask yourself, what will you do when (not if) you are laid flat by whatever it is that you did not see coming? How will you care for your special needs child/children? How will you provide the level of supervision necessary to be sure everyone is safe and cared for?

Let me answer for you. You won't. If you have to call for help to simply get up off the toilet, then you cannot do it. You must have help, and you must be willing to take it. I am incredibly blessed in that my wonderful husband works a minute away, can run home as needed, and can take the children to work with him, where they are fed and kept busy. I have two teen children who are sweet and reliable, who became my hands and feet. My husband can cook. In addition, my husband's employer is gracious in allowing him to take time to drive me to the doctor, and keep the children. Radiating out from my dear husband and children, are a circle of family and friends who are concerned and lifting me up in prayer.

This is all good stuff...great stuff in fact. But the harsh reality is that many adoptive families are not in this boat. The harsh reality is that even my darling girls would not hesitate to use this moment of weakness to take a dive into the deep end once more. A moment of weakness or inattention on my part usually signals at least one of them to engage in some unhealthy, unsafe, outrageous behavior. They don't have you play role play games at adoption preparation classes, but shall we?

Here's the scenario: You are down flat with a debilitating illness or injury. Forget getting up. You can't. Your older adopted child is prone to injuring the family pets, or playing with matches, or sexually aggressing towards a sibling. Take your pick. How will you care for that child, and keep everyone safe? Is it your FASD child's fault that you cannot provide line of sight supervision? It is your healthy child's responsibility to manage the unhealthy one? How will you clean up the mess when you begin to feel better? Can you?

We need to think about these things, because we are not invincible, but often we think we are. And as all of us in these trenches know, we can become terribly isolated, so that when we are in need, we find that we have nowhere to turn. This is why we keep putting ourselves out there, wearing our crazy lives on our sleeves, always trying to speak the truth. I admit, I hate being truthful at this point. I am darned tired of the truth, and would love to hide behind a little picturesque illusion for awhile. But picturesque illusion does not serve when we are truly in need, and no one even understands the need. I don't have to destroy anybody's dignity either. I can say, "I need you to watch this child. Don't let them out of your sight or hearing. They are darling, but dangerously impulsive. And check the bathroom when they're done." When they ask, just let them know how hazardous bathrooms can be....toilets to stuff, meds, toiletries, razors. Sometimes the temptation is just overwhelming.

The good news is, I'm feeling better. It goes far too slowly for me, but I have ample time to ponder the lessons to be learned. And the children are being stretched and growing too. They are learning that they can survive without Mom's watchful eye on them every minute of every hour; without testing every boundary just to see if Mom will rein them back in. Maybe.

2009-05-09T15:46:00.000-05:00

"Once we lose sight of God, we begin to be reckless. We cast off certain restraints from activities we know are wrong. We set prayer aside as well and cease having God’s vision in the little things of life. We simply begin to act on our own initiative. If we are eating only out of our own hand, and doing things solely on our own initiative without expecting God to come in, we are on a downward path. We have lost the vision. Is our attitude today an attitude that flows from our vision of God? Are we expecting God to do greater things than He has ever done before?"

My Utmost For His Highest-- Oswald Chambers

Bummer Free Blogging

2009-05-01T10:41:00.001-05:00

I posted at the other site recently.

Sorry...

2009-04-20T13:45:00.002-05:00

This is a short apology to the handful of kind readers who have contacted me and expressed concern over my blog silence. I know it has been quiet around here for awhile, and it may continue to be. It is not that I have dropped off the earth, or ceased to do what I do. It is not that I am buried in some crisis, though there is never any shortage of them, if you must know.

It is because I have reached some sort of saturation point. I have absorbed as much information as I can find, and although a fresh perspective is sometimes helpful, I am turning up nothing new. Likewise, I have lain awake enough nights thinking, crafted enough blog posts and emails, that again I feel saturated. Like if you squeeze me, the same old stuff will come trickling out.

There are no new ideas in my head, only unexpressed ones, because they are just too private, or painful, or "unPC" that I would hardly dare speak them to my sister, much less air them on a public blog. We have some sayings in our house, that we try to teach to the children, and put into practice ourselves. Sayings like, "Every thought that goes through your head does not need to come out your mouth," or "If you haven't got anything nice to say..." Well, you get my drift. And the same applies to my blogs.

The only fresh topics of discussion in my brain are not particularly upbeat, entertaining, or uplifting. Recently I have encountered blog posts written by veterans in the adoption world, who question if the adoption community on the Internet is helping or hurting adoptions in general. True, it is easy to reach out and find support, but are we scaring people away from adoption with our brutal honesty? Yet, on the flip side, are we leading good families down the road to destruction by censoring our accounts, and focusing on the heartwarming?

I admit to having no answers, but I am fearful of erring in either way. And I am tired. At the end of the day, I am really bone tired...too tired to try and put my experiences into words. What I am doing, does not leave much energy for the telling of it. And maybe that is right after all. Maybe the telling comes much later, when I can see the forest more clearly.

Quote of the Day

2009-02-17T19:06:00.002-05:00

Baby Boy: Mom, I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna get a sword, and chain mail. The government's not gonna stop me. I'm gonna be a knight.

(Wait, it gets better)

'Tater: But Baby Boy, I thought you wanted to be on a squat team!

Comment Question

2009-01-28T17:04:00.002-05:00

Mama Temple,
I know you follow this blog so maybe you will see this. I was reading at your blog and wanted to contact you but I can't for the life of me figure out how to comment. And you don't have a contact in your profile. So I will ask here and maybe I will hear from you. Thanks!

Everyone else, just carry on.

Ghetto Dog

2009-01-25T14:46:00.003-05:00

'Tater: Jazzy, you need a Tic Tac, cuz yo' breff stank!!!

Me: 'Tater, don't talk ghetto to the dog please.

'Tater: Yes Mom.

Low Average Intelligence

2009-01-19T08:53:00.003-05:00

I am beginning to really dislike these words. When my child was receiving testing this was presented to me as a gift, but it's not. Why would anyone want low intelligence? I think I want more of the stuff and not less. I have average to high intelligence, and life is hard and often does not make sense to me. I have the ability to connect the dots, understand motives, predict consequences...yet I am often blindsided by life such as it is.

Perhaps low intelligence is not such a curse if you live in a vacuum. Perhaps if you grow up in a loving family, are challenged to be your very best, find your niche and get on with your life? Perhaps if you meet someone to love you, who doesn't mind having to explain the movie, who grew up in a vacuum similar to your own? Maybe that happens somewhere...far far away. Where I come from, it's harder than that. You struggle to keep up, whether it's school work, or an employer's expectations, or just the conversation around the water cooler. In my world, people who aren't as sharp, as quick, get laughed at. And they are smart enough to recognize that, so they often keep quiet. In my world, people who stay a pace or two behind the pack get passed over and ignored. Or even worse, they are easy targets for unscrupulous people to take advantage of. But this is the good part. This is low intelligence in a vacuum.

My daughter has low intelligence in addition to numerous other impairments. In fact, they are too numerous to list or explain here. Each one of them has its own set of heartaches and challenges. No one of them is impossible to overcome. I look at each of her challenges; pick it up and turn it over in my hand. I plan and strategize. I can feel the weight of how difficult this will be. But I am smart. "As a whip," they used to say. "Sharp as a tack, nothing gets by her." I am forever confident in my ability to figure things out. My daughter is not.

So while she totes her enormously heavy sack of impairment, she does not understand it. She does not know how to. She does not know how unpack it piece by piece, turn the pieces over in her hand, and fashion a plan. She does not understand that her sack would cripple most of the smart folks she knows. She just drags it along like a useless limb, largely unaware of its weight.

Discontent

2009-01-18T18:21:00.002-05:00

WE often make our duties harder by thinking them hard. We dwell on the things we do not like till they grow before our eyes, and, at last, perhaps shut out heaven itself. But this is not following our Master, and He, we may be sure, will value little the obedience of a discontented heart. The moment we see that anything to be done is a plain duty, we must resolutely trample out every rising impulse of discontent. We must not merely prevent our discontent from interfering, with the duty itself; we must not merely prevent it from breaking out into murmuring; we must get rid of the discontent itself. Cheerfulness in the service of Christ is one of the first requisites to make that service Christian.

FREDERICK TEMPLE (1821-1902)

Do Over

2009-01-18T10:59:00.004-05:00

Depending on the context, my children may breathe a sigh of relief, or heave one of despair. If they have erred behaviorally, Mom usually gives them a "do over"; a chance to reapproach a similar situation, and behave appropriately. If they have blown off a chore or school work, Mom generally requires a "do over" of a not-so-merciful sort.

Baby Lala has been the queen of the "do over" this week. Yesterday she got one of the first sort. She went to her air rifle league, where she is generally a pretty fantastic shot. Between rounds of shooting, while children await their turn with a gun, the leaders have set up a snack/movie room. Yesterday Lala declined to shoot, in favor of watching movies and eating snacks. And quite frankly, I didn't haul them up out of bed early, and drive in a truck with no heat, in minus fourteen degree temps, to have her sit on her keister and watch movies, while eating more than her share of the snacks. I let her know this in no uncertain terms, but I gave her a "do over", letting her know that I did not ever expect to hear such a report again, and that if she did not want to shoot, then I would be happy to not take her to air rifle league anymore. Her Father, a zero tolerance man, let her know that he thought Mom was a softy, and that he would have cut her off then and there. And the good cop/bad cop thing works pretty well for us, most days.

Then there was the school work. Day one, Lala wanted to read one of the new books from Grandma for her reading assignment. She could not be dissuaded, though I thought the book would be a bit above her reading level and perhaps dry. It was a shiny new book, and that was all that mattered. So she sat holding it for a good long time, though her eyes were moving across the room, scanning her siblings' activities. Finally she announced that she had finished two very short chapters and was ready to do her book report. I require a short report on their assigned reading, mainly to keep them accountable, since otherwise some of them won't read. She produced about half a page, sloppily written. There were no capitol letters or puntuation to be seen. Spelling was atrocious, though it was clear she had simply plucked random sentences from the book and copied them...badly. So on day two, I required a "do over". This day I could see she had made some attempt to actually recall something from the book and write it down, but she clearly had no grasp of the plot. So I accepted her attempt, and went to the shelf to pick a book that was more appropriate to her reading level and interest. I chose "The Rescuers"... which as you may know, is a fairly challenging children's book.

It was a repeat of day one, with Lala holding her book in front of her, while watching and listening to anything nearby. But she declared that she had read her two short chapters and written an excellent report. Imagine my surprise when I read said report and found it to contain almost nothing from the first two chapters of the book. You guessed it! Lala dug deep into her memory, and recalled the plot of the Disney animated film of the same name, not realizing the book and the movie have almost nothing in common. Because it was easier to sit for forty minutes staring blankly at a page, then recap a movie you have not seen for well over two years, than to actually read a book.

I believe we have lost so much ground during the holiday season. Before the holidays, Lala went to bed a good hour before her siblings, in order to settle herself for sleep. She did not engage in any electronic entertainment of any kind on school days. Even on weekends, her use of such was extremely limited and her bedtime was fairly early. She was required to read and write every day. Over the holidays, much of this has slipped, and it is in part because we wanted her to enjoy a break, and participate in some of the fun activities her siblings enjoy. But the break in routine, and the leisure activities appear to have poisoned her ability to comprehend or enjoy reading, and write legibally or coherantly.

And I would be tempted to think this is a behavioural issue entirely, except she did the same thing with Math (her best subject). And I twisted the screws only long enough to make it clear I would not tolerate inferior work, and she is up to speed with one warning. So clearly it is not entirely about laziness or a desire to deceive Mom.

Now the funny part about all of this, is that her new therapist gave her a journal to write in and use a springboard for discussions. And this is what I know; that she sees it as a homework assignment to be evaded at all cost, and that she is virtually unable to express herself via written material. Which is why one of her few entries reads kind of like this:

"Today Grandpa played tops with us. It was fun. I had a great day." (certainly not spelled or punctuated like this)

So the therapist found herself disappointed. But she wonders if she's just holding back her emotions, and if, in time, she will write something of depth. I gave her a salute, and told her I wished her luck on her mission. And then I sequestered myself in the bathroom for a good laugh.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T13:17:00.001-05:00

Check out the new blog. It's kind of like my New Year resolution... which I generally don't make.

Merry Christmas!

2008-12-24T14:42:00.003-05:00

Hark, how all the welkin rings,
"Glory to the King of kings;
peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"

Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
join the triumph of the skies;
universal nature say,
"Christ the Lord is born today!"

Christ, by highest Heaven adored,
Christ, the everlasting Lord:
late in time behold him come,
offspring of a Virgin's womb!

Veiled in flesh, the Godhead see,
hail the incarnate Deity!
pleased as man with men to appear,
Jesus, our Emmanuel here!

Hail, the heavenly Prince of Peace,
Hail, the Sun of Righteousness!
Light and life to all he brings,
risen with healing in his wings.

Mild he lays his glory by,
born that man no more may die;
born to raise the sons of earth;
born to give them second birth.

Come, Desire of nations, come,
fix in us thy humble home;
rise, the woman's conquering Seed,
bruise in us the serpent's head.

Now display thy saving power,
ruined nature now restore;
now in mystic union join
thine to ours, and ours to thine.

Adam's likeness, Lord, efface,
Stamp thy image in its place.
Second Adam from above,
Reinstate us in thy love.

Let us thee, though lost, regain,
Thee, the life, the inner man:
O, to all thyself impart,
Formed in each believing heart.

Charles Wesley 1739

This is my all time favorite Christmas Carol, in its original form. Wesley envisioned it sung to the tune of his Easter hymn "Christ the Lord is Risen Today", and the words and music we sing today were adaptions added later, by others. Of course I love the familiar hymn, but the original poem and music certainly have power all their own.