A Letter to My Son

My dearest boy,

This year has been one of the most difficult I’ve ever lived. Let’s speak with honesty: you created most of the mountains and valleys.

Some people say hindsight is 20/20 regarding past mistakes. This phrase means that when we look back at the past, we have a clear picture of the choices we made, as well as the ability to see how the present might be different if we’d made other choices.

I see so many mistakes in our beginnings, due in part simply to ignorance. In some cases, these mistakes were coordinated by individuals trying to cover their wrongdoing. Sometimes, our vision was clouded by the possibilities. Other times, we were just too exhausted to see the right path.

In almost every case, the mistakes were not your fault. Unfortunately, those mistakes are partly responsible for your current location, in residential treatment—which doesn’t excuse your choices to be violent and oppositional, but provides some explanation.

Mistakes – in Hindsight

1. Ignorance

I read almost every adoption book available in this hemisphere in preparation, but don’t have any memory of advice to procure a liaison. We met you through friends providing respite care for your foster family. Rather than working through an agency, I called Social Services directly.

We ended up with the worst social worker on the planet. She wrote you off as problem kids, destined to continue the cycle begun by your birth family. She made clear her feelings that we were not qualified to be parents and threatened to remove you anytime I suggested you needed special services. As a result, I was hesitant to fight for the services you truly required. I was unaware of the many supports available to us.

2. Intentional Misinformation

Only a few months ago, I noticed the name of a therapy group mentioned in your paperwork. Searching my files, I found nothing, so contacted them. They sent me the original intake and notes from the six month time-frame they worked with you and your sister.

The documents outline clear recommendations for special handling due to your trauma situation and attachment issues. These same documents list the many times therapists attempted to involve the social worker, the consistent lack of interaction, the outright resistance to attending to your special needs.

The case is noted as closed out because they were unable to get necessary paperwork signed by the social worker, which prevented moving forward in treatment for attachment issues. These documents were sent to the social worker to be included in your file, but they were either never included or she removed them.

Reading documentation of the extent of your abuse and seeing with clear hindsight how we could have made your transition to our home so much less traumatic makes me physically ill. The room spins around me and I want to throw up. I want to scream, to weep, to track down this irresponsible human being and somehow make her see the damage she’s done to you.

3. Indomitable Belief

Your dad and I fit together like two pieces of a puzzle; together, we can accomplish almost anything. He is the logical, realistic, creative piece. He sees both the potential and the pitfalls. I am the dreamer, the visionary. I see what CAN be, but not always what IS. We both look for the good, but he recognizes solid truth, while I choose to believe the best, even if it means ignoring the obvious.

When you arrived, you were five. You did not know all the letters of the alphabet, but when I started helping you match letters to words (a, apple) I found that you knew curse words for letters A, B, C, D, F, G, H and more. In hindsight (there it is again), I should have realized the glint in your eye as you said, “S, sonofabitch,” meant you were testing my mettle with intent indicative of things to come.

I was determined to help you read; reading—and writing—was and is my survival. I knew that reading would help you heal. Would take you places far away when your reality became too heavy to bear. You were determined to learn. Within a year, you were reading full sentences. Less than six months later, you were reading a full year ahead of your grade. Every visit to the store, you brought me a book, pleading for a purchase. (I could easily reject a toy, but always bought a book.)

Your choices amazed me. Precocious. Intelligent. Many were beyond your reading ability, but you sat sounding out words, absorbed. From the beginning, I believed you and your sister were meant for big things. I saw this as confirmation of your special abilities.

You were obsessed with World War II, with military vehicles and aircraft, with the social injustices brought about by hate. I celebrated your intensity. One day, you carried an enormous coffee-table book about Vietnam toward me. My mom and aunt, with us for the shopping trip, were amazed at your choice. You were disappointed when I replaced the book (a documentary including pictures of dead bodies, which was a rule-out).

Upon returning to her house, my aunt found a black and white military documentary and asked me if I thought you’d be interested. No dead bodies filmed; I approved, and you watched it for hours. They began purchasing old war documentaries for you to watch during our visits. Everyone was amazed at your focus regarding all things war. I saw a savant. Imagined the leader of a nation forming in front of me, rather than a mind obsessed with violent images. And I still have hope.

4. Incredible Exhaustion

I do not blame you, truly, for what you had become by the time you arrived at our house. A wild animal in the body of a malnourished, neglected little boy. Like a modern-day Mowgli, you howled and screamed and struggled to communicate. You fought and snarled and ate with reckless abandon.

The foster family who kept you for eighteen months gave up long before they requested release; they had a limit. Consequently, they did little more than house you, missing important opportunities for early intervention.

Unfortunately for us all, when you arrived, there was no transition plan, no gradual acclimation to these new adults and new surroundings. During the first five years—and especially the first two, when the social worker still worked for the department—we found little support.

Some of this was our own doing; afraid that any glitch might cause the social worker to yank you from our home, we did not reach out to some of the people who might have provided strength. Of the few people we involved through necessity (people we saw each week at church or work colleagues covering for us), many walked away after a few interactions. You were too wild, too disrespectful, too dangerous to their children, too much work.

A few people continued to hold us up, but we were never comfortable leaving you with anyone untrained. Respite care workers were few and far between. We had no reprieve for almost six months, when we managed a weekend away while a trained mentor stayed with you. Watching you dismember and disembowel your teddy bear while staring at her menacingly was her breaking point. She stayed until we came home, but she never returned.

We didn’t have time to ourselves, not a date night, not a moment of true rest, for almost a full year. Even when we finally managed to coordinate a respite weekend, we were not able to relax because the caregivers constantly called us to ask for over-the-phone intervention.

When your behavior was horrible, we our only recourse was survival—you were unmoved by carrot or stick. (Actually, for the first twenty months, a literal “stick” was illegal since we were still fostering…but you get what I mean.) NOTHING worked.

Although frustrating, we also understood the lack of concern for consequences. If you’ve lost everything in your life, a redacted dessert for kicking your classmate means nothing. Understanding, though, is one thing. Finding relief is another—trying and failing to find a way to guide your behavior tested our limits. We found that prevention was the only option. We could never rest; scanning the environment constantly and guessing your next move consumed my day.

After the adoption, we felt more secure in pursuing options for support and finally received approval for in-home counseling, mentoring services and even more respite (although this was still limited). Even so, moments of true rest were few and fleeting.

Every parent makes bad decisions sometimes; exhaustion compounds the problem. I fully accept the responsibility for the times I raised my voice in frustration beyond acceptable decibel levels. The times I screamed when I should have walked away. Losing my crap completely over stepping barefoot on Legos.

I’m sure that our exhausted reactions in the first five years contributed to some of your angst.

If I could travel back in time, there are many things I’d do differently, in hindsight.

For the record, bringing you to live with us is NOT something I’d change.

I know these are not the only mistakes made in your short life. The list of people who’ve failed you is extensive, beginning even before the first moment you breathed Earth’s atmosphere.

You have a difficult road ahead, but from here, the opportunity to make (or avoid) mistakes becomes yours. You hold your future in your own hands.

As you told your therapist, you live with a Protective Grizzly Bear and a Pit Bull who Never Gives Up. Unlike that first foster family, no matter what happens, we will always call you ours. We will always love you.

Moving past the mistakes, releasing the desire for retaliation, opening your mind and heart to others…this will be a lifelong process. And it will be YOUR choice.

I pray that you will be able to see your way, clear and straight, to healing—and to HOME.

I love you.

Why Kate Spade’s Suicide Doesn’t Matter

Photo Credit: Housing Works Thrift Shops

Kate Spade had it all.

Met a cool guy named Andy. Started a business with him (and they later married). Business skyrocketed and became a household name (at least, in any household including teens or young women).

A New York Times headline describes her as the woman “Whose Handbags Carried Women Into Adulthood,” passionate and approachable.

She and Andy seemed to be unbelievably well-matched partners. He came up with the rough draft. She ran with his ideas and crafted the finished product.

Friends said the couple were “perfect” partners in business and life.

She sold her stake in the business shortly after the birth of their daughter. Even in her absence, the website still seems to draw from her unassuming, quirky, vibrant personality.

The designer told Moneyish last year she wouldn’t trade the time with her only child in exchange for her self-titled brand “in a million years.”

– People.com

In almost every article, Kate is described as the driving force of a fashion empire, impacting young ladies across the globe and in every layer of socioeconomics. “Attainable” fashion, with something for everyone from British Royalty and Chelsea Clinton to high school students. Fans like Jonquilyn Hill, now a producer, are reminiscing about buying their first Kate Spade bags.

Kate Spade was famous. Kate Spade worked hard and attained success. Kate Spade was a fashion phenom.

These are the reasons news of her apparent suicide is splashed across every web page around the world.

 

But Kate Spade’s suicide doesn’t matter.

 

At least, not for the reasons listed in many of the articles.

 

Kate was a mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend. Kate Spade’s suicide matters because she was a PERSON.

 

According to a CBS story, she may have been a person battling mental illness.

Most of us did not know Kate personally. 99% of The Web Collective freaking out right now did not know Kate.

Kate’s suicide doesn’t matter because people everywhere are mourning memories of their first handbag or wallet. Kate’s suicide doesn’t matter because she was a success. Kate’s suicide doesn’t matter because she is proof the American Dream comes true.

Kate’s suicide matters because people cared about her. Really cared. Not because famous people bought her products.

EVERY suicide should receive the same coverage. We should all mourn EVERY life lost to depression, to mental illness, to bad choices made in a moment of hopelessness.

Kate Spade’s suicide doesn’t matter any more than the suicide of my friend or of your parent or of that guy’s brother or of the kid from the neighborhood.

Her suicide also doesn’t matter any less.

The loss of a bright female leader (who chose to take time away from her fashion empire to focus on her daughter) is heartbreaking.

The fact that she is one of 45,000 individuals in one year to commit suicide is devastating.

According to the National Institute of Mental Health,

• Suicide was the tenth leading cause of death overall in the United States, claiming the lives of nearly 45,000 people.
• Suicide was the second leading cause of death among individuals between the ages of 10 and 34, and the fourth leading cause of death among individuals between the ages of 35 and 54.
• There were more than twice as many suicides (44,965) in the United States as there were homicides (19,362).

At-risk children, including those in the foster system, are even more likely to commit suicide.

In one study, children in foster care were almost three times more likely to have considered suicide and almost four times more likely to have attempted suicide than those who had never been in foster care.

-youth.gov

Perhaps “Kate Spade’s suicide doesn’t matter” isn’t really what I want to say. I think, “my friend’s suicide should matter just as much as Kate Spade’s” is closer to my true intent.

My adopted son’s declaration last September that he’d rather not be alive opened my eyes to the need. IN MY OWN HOME. Maybe in your home, also.

Hopelessness is rampant.

Be Hypervigilant.

Pay attention to the people around you—especially if they belong to an at-risk population like kids who’ve been in foster care.

If family members seem a little “off,” don’t wait to ask if they’re okay.

If friends admit to feeling depressed, encourage them to seek help—and don’t walk away.

You might be the light that draws them back to life.

 

 

Here are a few resources for help:

Help for the Suicidal

If you are in crisis, call the toll-free National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255), available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The service is available to anyone. All calls are confidential. http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org 

https://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2013/april-web-only/when-suicide-strikes-in-body-of-christ.html

https://answersingenesis.org/sanctity-of-life/christians-and-suicide-prevention/

 

Sending hugs your way.

 

 

 

MRI

We met with a neurologist a few weeks ago. She ordered an MRI for our boy, to rule out any physical brain issues. The appointment is tomorrow.

I assume we won’t have any answers for several weeks, but at least we are finally getting some traction.

A Letter to My Son

My dearest boy,

This year has been one of the most difficult I’ve ever lived. Let’s speak with honesty: you created most of the mountains and valleys.

Some people say hindsight is 20/20 regarding past mistakes. This phrase means that when we look back at the past, we have a clear picture of the choices we made, as well as the ability to see how the present might be different if we’d made other choices.

I see so many mistakes in our beginnings, due in part simply to ignorance. In some cases, these mistakes were coordinated by individuals trying to cover their wrongdoing. Sometimes, our vision was clouded by the possibilities. Other times, we were just too exhausted to see the right path.

In almost every case, the mistakes were not your fault. Unfortunately, those mistakes are partly responsible for your current location, in residential treatment—which doesn’t excuse your choices to be violent and oppositional, but provides some explanation.

Mistakes – in Hindsight

1. Ignorance

I read almost every adoption book available in this hemisphere in preparation, but don’t have any memory of advice to procure a liaison. We met you through friends providing respite care for your foster family. Rather than working through an agency, I called Social Services directly.

We ended up with the worst social worker on the planet. She wrote you off as problem kids, destined to continue the cycle begun by your birth family. She made clear her feelings that we were not qualified to be parents and threatened to remove you anytime I suggested you needed special services. As a result, I was hesitant to fight for the services you truly required. I was unaware of the many supports available to us.

2. Intentional Misinformation

Only a few months ago, I noticed the name of a therapy group mentioned in your paperwork. Searching my files, I found nothing, so contacted them. They sent me the original intake and notes from the six month time-frame they worked with you and your sister.

The documents outline clear recommendations for special handling due to your trauma situation and attachment issues. These same documents list the many times therapists attempted to involve the social worker, the consistent lack of interaction, the outright resistance to attending to your special needs.

The case is noted as closed out because they were unable to get necessary paperwork signed by the social worker, which prevented moving forward in treatment for attachment issues. These documents were sent to the social worker to be included in your file, but they were either never included or she removed them.

Reading documentation of the extent of your abuse and seeing with clear hindsight how we could have made your transition to our home so much less traumatic makes me physically ill. The room spins around me and I want to throw up. I want to scream, to weep, to track down this irresponsible human being and somehow make her see the damage she’s done to you.

3. Indomitable Belief

Your dad and I fit together like two pieces of a puzzle; together, we can accomplish almost anything. He is the logical, realistic, creative piece. He sees both the potential and the pitfalls. I am the dreamer, the visionary. I see what CAN be, but not always what IS. We both look for the good, but he recognizes solid truth, while I choose to believe the best, even if it means ignoring the obvious.

When you arrived, you were five. You did not know all the letters of the alphabet, but when I started helping you match letters to words (a, apple) I found that you knew curse words for letters A, B, C, D, F, G, H and more. In hindsight (there it is again), I should have realized the glint in your eye as you said, “S, sonofabitch,” meant you were testing my mettle with intent indicative of things to come.

I was determined to help you read; reading—and writing—was and is my survival. I knew that reading would help you heal. Would take you places far away when your reality became too heavy to bear. You were determined to learn. Within a year, you were reading full sentences. Less than six months later, you were reading a full year ahead of your grade. Every visit to the store, you brought me a book, pleading for a purchase. (I could easily reject a toy, but always bought a book.)

Your choices amazed me. Precocious. Intelligent. Many were beyond your reading ability, but you sat sounding out words, absorbed. From the beginning, I believed you and your sister were meant for big things. I saw this as confirmation of your special abilities.

You were obsessed with World War II, with military vehicles and aircraft, with the social injustices brought about by hate. I celebrated your intensity. One day, you carried an enormous coffee-table book about Vietnam toward me. My mom and aunt, with us for the shopping trip, were amazed at your choice. You were disappointed when I replaced the book (a documentary including pictures of dead bodies, which was a rule-out).

Upon returning to her house, my aunt found a black and white military documentary and asked me if I thought you’d be interested. No dead bodies filmed; I approved, and you watched it for hours. They began purchasing old war documentaries for you to watch during our visits. Everyone was amazed at your focus regarding all things war. I saw a savant. Imagined the leader of a nation forming in front of me, rather than a mind obsessed with violent images. And I still have hope.

4. Incredible Exhaustion

I do not blame you, truly, for what you had become by the time you arrived at our house. A wild animal in the body of a malnourished, neglected little boy. Like a modern-day Mowgli, you howled and screamed and struggled to communicate. You fought and snarled and ate with reckless abandon.

The foster family who kept you for eighteen months gave up long before they requested release; they had a limit. Consequently, they did little more than house you, missing important opportunities for early intervention.

Unfortunately for us all, when you arrived, there was no transition plan, no gradual acclimation to these new adults and new surroundings. During the first five years—and especially the first two, when the social worker still worked for the department—we found little support.

Some of this was our own doing; afraid that any glitch might cause the social worker to yank you from our home, we did not reach out to some of the people who might have provided strength. Of the few people we involved through necessity (people we saw each week at church or work colleagues covering for us), many walked away after a few interactions. You were too wild, too disrespectful, too dangerous to their children, too much work.

A few people continued to hold us up, but we were never comfortable leaving you with anyone untrained. Respite care workers were few and far between. We had no reprieve for almost six months, when we managed a weekend away while a trained mentor stayed with you. Watching you dismember and disembowel your teddy bear while staring at her menacingly was her breaking point. She stayed until we came home, but she never returned.

We didn’t have time to ourselves, not a date night, not a moment of true rest, for almost a full year. Even when we finally managed to coordinate a respite weekend, we were not able to relax because the caregivers constantly called us to ask for over-the-phone intervention.

When your behavior was horrible, we our only recourse was survival—you were unmoved by carrot or stick. (Actually, for the first twenty months, a literal “stick” was illegal since we were still fostering…but you get what I mean.) NOTHING worked.

Although frustrating, we also understood the lack of concern for consequences. If you’ve lost everything in your life, a redacted dessert for kicking your classmate means nothing. Understanding, though, is one thing. Finding relief is another—trying and failing to find a way to guide your behavior tested our limits. We found that prevention was the only option. We could never rest; scanning the environment constantly and guessing your next move consumed my day.

After the adoption, we felt more secure in pursuing options for support and finally received approval for in-home counseling, mentoring services and even more respite (although this was still limited). Even so, moments of true rest were few and fleeting.

Every parent makes bad decisions sometimes; exhaustion compounds the problem. I fully accept the responsibility for the times I raised my voice in frustration beyond acceptable decibel levels. The times I screamed when I should have walked away. Losing my crap completely over stepping barefoot on Legos.

I’m sure that our exhausted reactions in the first five years contributed to some of your angst.

If I could travel back in time, there are many things I’d do differently, in hindsight.

For the record, bringing you to live with us is NOT something I’d change.

I know these are not the only mistakes made in your short life. The list of people who’ve failed you is extensive, beginning even before the first moment you breathed Earth’s atmosphere.

You have a difficult road ahead, but from here, the opportunity to make (or avoid) mistakes becomes yours. You hold your future in your own hands.

As you told your therapist, you live with a Protective Grizzly Bear and a Pit Bull who Never Gives Up. Unlike that first foster family, no matter what happens, we will always call you ours. We will always love you.

Moving past the mistakes, releasing the desire for retaliation, opening your mind and heart to others…this will be a lifelong process. And it will be YOUR choice.

I pray that you will be able to see your way, clear and straight, to healing—and to HOME.

I love you.

Fun and Games

I just read a blog post from a dad who is committed to making sure he stays connected with his kids. (Click the link; his blog is super.)

His thoughts led me to a few of my own.

We so often focus on getting “quality” time with our kids and doing special things they will remember.

But what do you remember from your childhood? If you have memories of your family doing things together, what is your strongest mental image?

Most of my early memories don’t involve anything elaborate. Many relate to simple things we did each week.

Digging in a sandbox.

Swinging on the backyard set.

Board games on the floor.

We wanted to create similar happy memories with our kids.

When they first came to us, I would have argued that “board games” should just be called “bored.” Or, more accurately, “the quickest way to give yourself a migraine.”

In the beginning, they had zero focus and fought us at every turn (get it…because in games you take a turn…), even when something was supposed to be fun.

However, Hubby and I have fond memories of playing games like Risk and Monopoly, and we’re nothing if not determined. Our kids WILL play games, doggone it.

Brain-numbing (to us) choices like Memory and Guess-Who gave us our first tentative game connections with the kids, and eventually they could make it through a full round of Sorry or Trouble.

Doing puzzles also interested them, although we had to buy puzzles several levels below what you’d expect for their age. As confidence built, the number on the puzzle box rose.

Thanks to my aunts and mom, who often jigsaw when together, the kids saw puzzles as a fun hangout time for adults. This, of course, made the activity more desirable.

Our kiddos recently shocked us by asking for family game night instead of family movie night.

And we played Risk, without any actual casualties.

I call it a win.

Once Upon a Birthmother

Have you ever noticed how many movies involve children without parents, kids in foster care and adopted children? Before our kids came to us, I noticed.

The themes made me yearn for a time when we’d have our own adopted littles.

Spawned fond ideas of happy endings, possibly after a short time of adjustment.

Let’s take a moment and smile at the memory of my innocence. 

Okay, moment of silence over. The dissonance between my dreams and my reality isn’t our topic today.

Since we’ve had the kids, both Hubby and I started noticing the plethora of movies centered around loss and adoption.

Take a minute and make a list of the movies—especially children’s movies—that do NOT have at least one missing parent.

How’s it going?

If you make a list of movies involving a loss, I believe you’ll have an easier time.

Disney movies in particular thrive on the “bio parent has disappeared; brand new mummy is horrid” idea. I am no activist (at least, not against Disney) but I do have concerns about the messages inherent in Mickey’s versions of the fairy tales.

Until Frozen, almost every Disney story involved a fairly young girl being rescued by an older guy, often against her guardian’s better judgement.

I understand that child marriage is not frowned upon in ALL countries, but in general, who thinks this is okay?

16 year-old girl rebels against protective (and fairly reasonable) father. She has no mother figure and seeks out a woman recognized by EVERYONE as a bad influence. This woman encourages her to use “body language” to go after a man who is old enough to hold a job governing a country (probably late 20’s, early 30’s, since his dad appears to be about 70). The girl runs away from home, ends up naked, finds the guy and moves in with his family. They know nothing about each other and marry within weeks.

We all recognize The Little Mermaid, of course. Sweet movie.

In real life, no one in his or her right mind thinks it’s okay for a 16 year old to marry a complete stranger twice her age. That’s a recipe for domestic abuse.

Disney isn’t the only storyteller utilizing the Hero’s Journey, in which the protagonist follows a path which often involves great loss (e.g., parents) and overcomes.

It’s a great story line, truly.

Real life, as we know, does not always follow the Journey path.

Our kids experienced loss.

Loss of biological family.

Loss of familiar surroundings.

Loss of stability (such as it was).

Loss of connection.

Loss of everything they’ve ever known.

And watching stories helps them learn to rewrite their own.

As I’ve mentioned previously, they became obsessed with the Despicable Me series. In case you’ve been living in the Amazon (rainforest, not corporation) with no electricity, you’re probably familiar with the storyline:

Three girls in foster care move in with a villain who has selfish reasons for the adoption. The girls win him over and he fights to protect and keep them. Later, he marries his adorable spy counterpart, giving them a mother. The Happy End. 

Some movies with adoption themes are helpful. They address points that we might not be comfortable bringing up (or show us ideas in our kids’ minds of which we may not be aware until they talk about the movie).

Despicable Me actually helped them form a more healthy view of family life.

However, we’ve learned that careful curation is important.

As you may know, neither Hubby or I are keen on allowing hours of screen time (the Electronic Nanny, as it were). Aside from the many negative aspects of screen time for “regular” kids (a soapbox I’ll be happy to mount another day), our kids easily pick up attitudes about adoption—both positive AND negative.

Recently, we’ve been a bit less guarded with our daughter. She’s now in her very early teens and we can’t force her to watch rated G movies forever (although that would be great…yes, you’re right…I should Let it Go, Let it Goooooo).

The three of us began watching Once Upon a Time. As a fairy tale lover (Grimm, not Disney), the retold stories make me grin. Most of the characters, especially Rumpelstiltskin, are fabulously rendered. Beginning with the first episode, we became a little addicted (okay, Hubby not so much…but the girl and I loved it).

And then we noticed a subtle change in our girl.

She began to lose some of her recent progress, sliding back into an attitude of…something difficult to describe. Derision. Passive-aggressive opposition.

She drew us into conversations about whether we were really related. About her roots. About the lack of a “blood” connection with us. She began expressing a concern that she really didn’t care about us that much, although she felt she should care more.

*I would like to take a moment to mention here that Hubby missed his calling as a child psychologist. He accurately diagnosed the problem: what I saw as a fun retelling of a story, our daughter was internalizing.

In Once Upon a Time, Emma Swan is an oblivious, non-magical person living in Boston until her birth son, Henry, tracks her down and brings her to Storybrooke, where he’s been adopted by none other than the Evil Queen (adversary of Snow White). Henry believes Emma is the fulfillment of a prophecy that Snow White and Prince Charming’s daughter will save all the happy endings.

Adoptive mother = Evil Queen (unrepentant, selfish and, well, Evil)

Birth mother = Savior (sorry she ever gave up her baby and determined to make it up to him by bringing happiness to an entire town)

I assume you see where this is going. 

Usually I’m a little quicker on the uptake, but this time I was blindsided. Could not figure out what in the world had happened to flip the switch in our now-generally-happy kid.

She started talking about memories of the past, about her biological parents (as if they were possibly very good people who made a mistake).

And began pushing me away.

The harder I worked to fix whatever “this” was, the further we slipped apart.

One day we had a conversation about Papa, Hubby’s father. When he passed away, we were all devastated, especially Hubby.

Our girl calmly informed me that she didn’t think she’d be that upset when Hubby and I passed on; she assumed Hubby felt the loss so much because of his blood connection. 

We discussed how people can be close with or without blood connection, but she didn’t seem to get it.

When Hubby arrived home, I was worn out. Once he found out about our conversation, the three of us sat down and he faced off with our girl.

You’ve been watching a lot of Once Upon a Time. Do you realize it’s affecting how you see Mom and me?

At first, she didn’t. Half an hour later, following discussions of the different characters and how they might relate to our situation, she voluntarily took Once Upon a Time off her viewing list. She has refused to watch it ever since, saying she didn’t like what it did to her thoughts.

I’m not suggesting we all make OUAT off-limits (it contains some great messages, actually), nor do I think we all need to trash our televisions.

Here’s what I do suggest:

• Keep a close eye on program themes and watch to see how they affect your kids
• Discuss problematic themes with your children
• Don’t assume your children aren’t internalizing and relating to the content
• Be willing to remove problematic programming if they’re not able to make that choice themselves
• Keep open, honest discussion a priority
• Remember: helping them draw their own conclusions works much better than simply telling them how it is

The battle for their minds is more difficult than I sometimes realize. They are bombarded on all fronts at this age—TV, radio, magazines, online media, friends and enemies…everything around them helps form their opinions and attitudes.

Jen Oshman makes a great point on her blog:

The only antidote for a mind that is tempted to believe what’s false is to renew it with what’s true.  Paul knew this and tells us, “whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (Philippians 4:8).

Pouring positive influence into the minds and hearts of the children in our lives—especially for adopted kids, who may never completely shake the feelings of loss and abandonment—is one of our most important jobs.

Take a moment today to have a conversation with a kid in your life. Hearing a new perspective might be just what they need.

 

Wishes

I’m sitting next to a family.

Two parents with three most-likely-bio sons. I watch the oldest roll his eyes as the youngest runs around the cafe, repeating with gusto,

“I spy with my little eye…”

The middle boy colors quietly by himself.

I don’t know the names of the older boys.

The youngest is definitely named Liam.

Father and mother halfheartedly chase the towheaded toddler in turns, calling his name.

He expertly ignores, then evades them.

It is a blissful scene of family togetherness, childhood glee and parental exasperation.

Sometimes I watch other people with their children, heart aching.

Wishing.

Grieving.

I am not the woman who gave my children life.

Every so often, I wonder whether things would be different if I’d held them in my arms from birth.

But

a few days ago

I saw a lady watching as my daughter and I walked through the store

arms wrapped around each others’ shoulders

being our goofy selves

and laughing.

The woman’s eyes sparkled with tears.

I wondered about her story.

And it hit me.

We all watch each other.

Wishing.

Grieving our personal losses.

Assuming others have a better, happier life.

She has no idea of the depths of hell from which my girl and I have fought our way back to be mother and daughter.

She can’t imagine the years of despairing whether we’d ever have a relationship.

I reconsider some of my wishing.

Maybe Liam’s family lets him have run of the place because he’s recently had his third round of chemo and they don’t know if it will work. Maybe they seem happy together because it might be the last time.

None of us has any idea what the others’ lives are like, and yet, we wish.

A few weeks ago, I talked with a friend I’ve always seen as the epitome of happy and positive. We lost touch after college for over fifteen years. Three minutes into the phone call, our friendship was all caught up. She’s the same sunny girl.

Five minutes in, we’d spilled our guts.

Our adoption journey. Their many miscarriages.

Everyone has a difficult patch in life to overcome.

We all have our own battles, and none of us really knows what others endure.

I’m a born advocate; when I read Isaiah 1:17, Proverbs 31:8 and and Isaiah 58:6-11, I feel they were written to me personally.

Isaiah 1:17 New International Version (NIV)

¹⁷ Learn to do right; seek justice.
    Defend the oppressed.
Take up the cause of the fatherless;
    plead the case of the widow.

Proverbs 31:8 New International Reader’s Version (NIRV)

⁸ Speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves.
    Speak up for the rights of all those who are poor.

 

I can fight for what others (e.g., my kids) need all day long. But if I’m honest, miscarriages would utterly destroy me. God knew what I could handle.

God knew beforehand this was going to be my life, so I’m fully prepped to fight, love and pray my way through the hard times.

Maybe I just need to focus a little more on being thankful I’m equipped for this life, instead of wishing for someone else’s battle.

 

 

Isaiah 58:6-11, NIRV

Set free those who are held by chains without any reason.
    Untie the ropes that hold people as slaves.
Set free those who are crushed.
    Break every evil chain.

Share your food with hungry people.
    Provide homeless people with a place to stay.
Give naked people clothes to wear.
    Provide for the needs of your own family.

Then the light of my blessing will shine on you like the rising sun.
    I will heal you quickly.
I will march out ahead of you.
    And my glory will follow behind you and guard you.
    That’s because I always do what is right.

You will call out to me for help.
    And I will answer you.
You will cry out.
    And I will say, ‘Here I am.’

 Get rid of the chains you use to hold others down.
    Stop pointing your finger at others as if they had done something wrong.
    Stop saying harmful things about them.

Work hard to feed hungry people.
    Satisfy the needs of those who are crushed.
Then my blessing will light up your darkness.
    And the night of your suffering will become as bright as the noonday sun.

 I will always guide you.
    I will satisfy your needs in a land baked by the sun.
    I will make you stronger.
You will be like a garden that has plenty of water.
    You will be like a spring whose water never runs dry.

 

 

 

Guilty

Continued from Desolate

When the kids first came to live with us, I clocked three to four hours of sleep a night. The girl wailed until after midnight; the boy woke screaming around in the wee hours.

Every. Single. Day.

The initial sleep deprivation lasted about six months; four months for social services (still the legal guardian) to approve meds and two more months for the doctor to find the correct dose.

I still remember the relief I felt the first morning after we found the right combination, waking around 6 instead of 4 am.

I’d forgotten how it felt. September brought it all rushing back.

This time, I think, was worse.

Digressing a bit: I’ve had a recent epiphany that I experienced almost no change in stamina from the time I was seventeen. Until now.

Sometime this year, I looked in the mirror and realized I am no longer twenty-seven. Or thirty-seven, for that matter. Am I too old for a ponytail? 

Apparently, up to this point my brain has been convinced I’m a decade younger, and the shock of realizing I am OH NO middle-aged was a bit too much.

This time, sleep deprivation almost killed me.

Ok, that’s hyperbole.

But I was beyond exhausted. By the end of September, I started telling Hubby I might like a weekend in the acute center, if they actually had white padded rooms available. 48 hours sleeping in a soundproof room…sounds like heaven.

Unfortunately, checking myself in at one of those places wasn’t an actual option. Hubby took over on weekends and let me nap as much as possible while he was home.

Finally, after weeks of phone calls and meetings and waiting, we got the approval call from the treatment center.

Because we were concerned about what our son might do if we informed him ahead of time, I packed him a suitcase during the night. I crept into his room and slipped his stuffed dog from under his arm. The next day, as we drove to the treatment facility, we explained.

1. We are not counselors or psychiatrists; we have researched and prepared as much as possible, but we are not trained to provide the care you need.

2. We care very much about you and want to give you the best chance to succeed in life. The people at this facility have the qualifications to help you.

3. We are NOT giving you up, letting you go, abandoning you or sending you away.

Our son responded with little emotion.

Like I said before, you’ve tried everything. We might as well try this.

His absolute lack of reaction still stymies me.

The experience at this treatment center was a complete change from the acute center. We met the director, head nurse and several staff. While the nurse completed the intake with our son, we toured the facility.

The staff explained to our son that the initial stay would be thirty days; he perked up and I watched determination firm his jaw.

At the time, we didn’t realize this would become a problem.

He thought if he could “act good” for thirty days, they’d release him. And he decided to make it happen. 

He hugged us goodbye without a tear, then walked through the metal door with a staff member. It closed behind him with a heavy thud.

We walked to the car.

I expected to feel guilt at leaving him with strangers.

I expected to feel great sadness at leaving him behind. For almost seven years, we’d been four. Now, at least temporarily, we were three.

I expected to feel lonely, to feel his absence, to experience a boy-shaped hole in my existence.

I expected to feel that I was a failure as a mother, having not been enough to help him.

But here I must admit: I felt nothing but relief.

I truly believed the people in that building would be able to help him in a way Hubby and I could not. I knew we weren’t leaving him permanently; we would, soon enough, once again be four. I understood that I’d exhausted every possibility available, turned over every proverbial stone.

As for missing him—maybe this sounds awful, but…I didn’t.

My only source of guilt: the relief at being able to relax.

No checking every thirty seconds. No worrying whether he’d wake before I did. No concern about destruction or harm to property or living creature (including his sister) if my visit to the loo lasted an extra minute.

The first three days after drop off, I slept like the dead.

A week later, Hubby looked ten years younger.

And the nurse called to tell me our son was the best behaved child in the center.

He is so polite. He is kind to everyone. I wish they were all just like your son.

I was gobsmacked. Flabbergasted. Shocked.

How could this be the same child?

Until now, I’d never realized how determined he could be.

Guess how long that dogged kid kept it up.

Desolate

Photo credit: Dustin Spengler

Continued from Excruciating Ride, Part 2

If you asked for a one-word description of my internal landscape during early fall, I would use the word desolate.

Desolate, synonyms: miserable, despondent, depressed, disconsolate, devastated, despairing, inconsolable, broken-hearted, grief-stricken, crushed, bereft

Dark storms on the horizon and a long, lonely road ahead.

His six-day stint in acute psychiatric care only seemed to magnify his behaviors. He literally came home worse than when he left. Although he fed us lies about some aspects, we observed serious lack of supervision in the acute facility. He came home with a softball-sized bruise on his arm from playing a “punching game.” Roll the dice, the other kids punch you. Granted, there’s a good chance he willingly participated, but there’s no reasonable explanation for kids getting away with that kind of assault under true supervision.

He hid his shoes in the gym and blamed another child (we found out after); they still hadn’t found the shoes when we came to pick him up, so they led him outside in stocking feet. The nurse couldn’t fathom why we were upset. It never occurred to anyone that perhaps a pair of flip-flops (or a call home so we could bring shoes) might be necessary.

Peripheral concerns like these made us more concerned about the true level of care and supervision at the center. We began to hear stories from other families whose children had bad experiences and became determined to keep him safe at home until we could find a better solution.

I slept about 4 hours a night, making sure he was sound asleep before I went to bed and waking before he stirred. Thankfully, Hubby made it possible for me to stay home starting mid-summer (as we were planning to homeschool). I don’t know how I’d have survived trying to work as well as fully supervise the boy.

We instructed the girl to stay out of his way as much as possible. It was now early September, so each day included school work; he generally complied with the intent of “beating” his sister. Normally I discourage competition, but in this case it kept him focused so I didn’t fight it. Surviving the day was my only goal.

After schoolwork completion and some time in the yard to run around (and outside the fifteen hours of time per week with the in-home counselor, psychiatrist and office-visit counselor), I allowed him to play with Legos or let the two kids watch movies (a complete anomaly; our normal TV schedule included almost no screen time other than a Friday night movie). The only time I could guarantee no violence were the minutes his eyes were glued to the “bug light.”

Meanwhile, I spent hours on the phone with our insurance company, the social workers, a county government team and his in-home counselor. I called and researched longer-term psychiatric facilities within 6 hours of our home. Most wouldn’t take him as they were not considered locked facilities. They couldn’t protect other children from him, and they couldn’t prevent him from running away or hurting himself.

I prayed we could find a place for him; Hubby and I were completely exhausted. He took over much of the supervision in the evening so I could get a shower and make dinner, which meant he was basically working two jobs.

Finally, I found a facility within reasonable driving distance. As I researched further, I found that the original trauma counselor who saw our family in the beginning of our journey wrote the program for the facility and continued to consult with them. They utilized Trauma-Focused Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, something we’d been advised to pursue.

Every conversation gave us more certainty this would be our best option.

 

Continued…

H E Double Hockeysticks

 

Photo by Patsy Wooters

Since June, I’ve wanted needed to write about what’s going on but felt I should wait for perspective.

Some words should stay in my head. 

In June, I was ready to toss in the proverbial towel. Actually, I wanted to fling the towel. And maybe some other things.

At my kid.

We’ve found that when he’s in line of sight of a parent, our guy tends to have great behavior.

The problem starts about thirty seconds after we’re gone.

We can’t leave him alone with other adults (he won’t listen) or kids, and he simply does whatever he wants.

The first week after school ended, our son was scheduled to attend Scout camp for a week.

I was concerned; he’d been generally out of control the entire school year. After a 45-minute explanation of our boy’s background and behavior, the Scoutmaster assured me of his ability to wrangle uber-hormonal psycho creatures (aka pre-teen boys) and made me feel a bit silly for doubting his superior ability to handle our kid.

In hindsight, I should have listened to my misgivings; he’d been to camp before but never without his sister or Hubby. In this case, he was surrounded by older boys, most of whom he’d annoyed at some point. Although he brings it on himself in most cases, being “targeted” (in his mind) by older boys sparks flashbacks, which feed his aggressive behavior.

Upon arrival, he found that his expected tent mate would arrive a day late due to incomplete paperwork. To prevent any possible new bunk mates joining him, he urinated on the wooden tent platform.

Although it was his own doing, sleeping alone in a tent in the dark woods left him disgruntled. By the time his pal arrived, he wanted revenge.

He started a game of Cops & Robbers (that’s still a thing?) but got upset when two “officers” slammed our little “cat burglar” against a tree for resisting arrest. He then suggested a dirt clod fight (which the other boys were enthusiastic to join). Our guy became enraged when his intended tent buddy, in a clear betrayal (at least in our boy’s mind), hit him in the head.

“I’m going to kill you!” he yelled, before running a quarter mile into the woods.

Upon returning to camp, he found that it was his turn to wait tables at dinner and he would have to serve the table including his turncoat Brutus. Screaming obscenities, he ran back into the woods.

A week of camping turned to three days, as the seasoned Scoutmaster called to inform me he could not adequately provide supervision for our child.

I understood.

Unfortunate timing, as I was out of state with our daughter, five hours away. I’d intended this to be a week off for Hubby to take some time for himself after months of non-stop projects at home and work.

When I called Hubby to relay the news, he was almost home. He works 20 minutes from the camp. We live an hour from the camp. He turned around to retrieve our son and sat in accident traffic. For FOUR hours. So much for time to relax.

If only the boy could have had his incident an hour earlier…

 

 

So began the summer from h-e-double-hockeysticks.