What's Left After the Thaw

It's another beautiful March day.  We spent part of the afternoon in the backyard, raking up bits of leaves (me) and picking up doggy droppings (Rick) that have become visible now that the snow has melted.  We're also finding what else had been covered up by Winter.

A pair of camouflage gloves.

Colorful bits of broken plastic and toys.

A veritable minefield of wood shards and snapped branches.

More than one piece of 2x4 with rusty nails sticking straight up.

Two halves of a Razr scooter.

Two bike tires with broken spokes and twisted metal.

Boy felt better when he broke things.

For seven months, we called him son, and meant it even on the last day.  It's been over a month and a half since that cold winter day when we said goodbye to him.  So much has changed since then, yet so much is still the same.  His smiling school picture is still on the fridge.  Maisy points at it often and says, smiling, "There's Boy."  His school library books still sit on his dresser - the one he pounded a hole through with a hammer on one of his last nights here.  Every once in awhile, I walk in his old room and think about how I should really stop by the school sometime to return them.  The shattered window in his room is still covered up with plywood, the door is still torn off of the basement room where we feed the dog, the paneled wall is still knocked down and ripped apart.  When Maisy feeds the dog, she points to these things and says, "Boy break door."

Some of the pictures on the fridge can still make me smile, though.  For the first month or so of school, Boy functioned pretty well.  He let me help him with his homework.  He participated in an after-school activity, and Maisy and I went to every one to cheer him on.  He was different then.  Everything was different.

I remember when he began to unravel, sometime in October, for sure in November.  But I'm not going to get into all of that here.  The Whats and Whys and Hows.

So what's left now?  After the thaw?  The hard freeze is over.  What's left behind?

A pair of camouflage gloves.

A 25-month-old who still says "I sister."  Who remembers Boy almost every time we pray before meals.  Who still says, "I miss Girly" even though it's been nearly 7 months since the last time Maisy saw her - when we called our amazing, supportive friends to pick Maisy up at the spur of the moment and keep her away from our house for the night.  Who still points to broken pieces of whatnot and tells me the things Boy destroyed.  Who responds with "Boy loves me" when I ask her in a sing-song voice, "Who loves Maisy?"

Guilt and relief.

A working knowledge of several area pediatric psychiatry units and a sense of which ones are more appropriate for a child with a traumatic history.

Guilt and a feeling of renewed youth.

Residual fear.

Questions.

Vivid memories.

Gratefulness for the care I received in my mother's womb, in my parents' home, from Day 1.  I realize now how critical those early days are, those first few years.  I worry a little about the impact of the hard months on Maisy, but overall, I know she is fine.  She has always been well cared for.  She has always been loved.  She has never known hunger, or the brain-changing confusion of a caregiver who is sometimes warm and sometimes cold and sometimes totally absent.  I am so grateful I can meet her core needs.  Give her this healthy beginning in life.  I wish Boy had had it.  And Girly, too.  I wish it earnestly, and often.

Sadness, yet a sense that I should somehow feel sadder.

Awareness.  Of mental illness.  Of the importance of those first three years.  Of Reactive Attachment Disorder.  Of Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder.  Of early sexualization.  Of trauma, and PTSD, and the effects of trauma on developing brains.  Of the complexity and desperation of trying to heal children with complex trauma and an assortment of acronyms.

HUMILITY.  I can have so much knowledge and compassion, go to so many trainings, apply this or that method, consult with therapists and experts, try, and try, and try again, and yet fail miserably.  Fail.  So rarely in my life have I failed at anything, and here I failed at something so huge.

Humility.  Powerlessness.  But with the thaw has come some peace.  I know that the Boy who was my son for such a relatively short time, is and always has been a child of God.  And even though I could do so very little, I know that God can do so very, very much.

What's left after the thaw?

Faith.

Hope.

Love
.

Manna from Heaven

Six months.  

That's about how long it has been since I wrote my last post.  In the beginning, I was too busy and exhausted to get down to the computer to write.  After a time, however, I just didn't know what to say.  

Every so often, I even contemplated deleting the last post because I couldn't imagine how I would build onto it from there.  I didn't, though, because deleting the post would invalidate the emotions I felt then, and those emotions were very real.  Deleting the post would erase a moment that happened, a joyful memory, regardless of the sad events that occurred later.  

I won't tell the details of what happened.  Even though I don't anticipate that either of the kids will ever read this, I need to protect their privacy and their feelings.  

Things didn't turn out the way we had hoped and planned.  I don't blame anyone, even myself, though that took some time.  It's just the way it is.  In short, we are now a family of 4.  The bright little girl from our first meeting is living with, and is going to be adopted by, the foster family where she thrived before the placement was made.  I heard her on the phone not long ago, and was so glad to hear that she sounded happy and healthy.  The enthusiastic 12-year-old boy still lives with us, and soon he will be a teenager!  The challenges are many.  They are undeniable.  But the memory of that first meeting, and the swell of love I felt for both of the children, they were real, too.  

We're in a new place now, a place where we need to trust God to meet our needs each and every day.  Like the manna from heaven that couldn't be kept from one day to the next, we rely on God for our daily bread, and we try not to worry about what tomorrow will bring.  I pray every morning for God to give us enough for today, and He does!  

Every day, He does.  Like manna from heaven.

What It's Like

Let me tell you what it's like when you meet your children for the first time.

If you've ever held your newborn baby in your arms, you remember the way that your eyes fill up:  Maybe just the prick of a tear, or maybe you let loose in a flood of emotion.

When your children are 10 and 12 years old when you meet them, it's exactly like that.  Only different.

When you meet your 10 and 12 year old children for the first time, you've probably already seen a picture.  So you already know they are a couple of adorable kids.  You've probably already talked to their social workers, teachers, foster parents, and other people who know them well.  So you already know that they are resilient, lovable, and one-of-a-kind (times 2!).

You're excited.  It feels so strange, knowing that in 5 minutes you will become a mom again, and that for the rest of your life you will have two more lives to guide and love unconditionally.  You're so nervous that your stomach is tied up in crazy twisted-up knots.  You know you'll love them (you already do), but what if they're not as happy to see you?

You pray.  The knots loosen a little.  You're relieved to remember that others are praying, too.

Then you spot them for the first time.  Maybe they're outside tossing a football around.  A beautiful blond pixie of a girl and a brown-haired boy with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.  You gasp and say to your husband, "They are so cute."

The tears prick your eyes: Yes, it's exactly the same.  I'm their mom, you think.  They're my kids forever, you think.

The car stops and you can't wait to get out.  On the way here, so many thoughts raced through your head.  Do we refer to ourselves as Mom & Dad right away?  Do we hug them when we meet them?  At the end of the visit?  Do we just wait?  What will we say?

But unlike that precious newborn with the scrunched-up forehead and the bleary eyes, your 10 and 12-year-old children can already smile at you.  And they do, and it lights up their whole faces.  You are utterly captivated.  Your children can already reach for you, and they do, and hugging them is the most natural thing in the world.

So what's it like when you meet your children for the first time?  It doesn't matter if they are a newborn with a button nose and pink cheeks, or a pair of preteens looking up at you with hope shining in their eyes: You are caught off guard by the awesome responsibility that is yours.  And you just love them.

Six Word Memoir: June 1st, 2011, 10:13 am

Chosen!!! And our lives changed forever.

"................................"

Alternatively titled:  Why I Haven't Been Blogging

When I was pregnant with Maisy and in my first trimester, I wanted to tell the entire world my awesome news. But I held back. I was worried that something would happen – because things do happen :( – and I was afraid of the possibility of having to backtrack and tell sad news too. Then, the first trimester was over, and I crossed that imaginary line from “be-careful-what-you-share” to “now-you-can-tell-whoever-you-want”. 

 Suddenly, aside from my close friends and family who basically already knew, I didn't know what to say! Or how to say it! Or when to say it! In fact, I didn't tell many of my co-workers or any of my middle school students until long after I'd been wearing maternity clothes to work. It's not that I'm shy, and certainly not that I don't like attention (I admittedly do). I just. Didn't. Know. What. To Say.

That's my introduction.

By the way, I am not pregnant again.

Also by the way, I have a different kind of news. I've typed at least 3 blog entries about it that I've never posted. My blog has been mainly silent because this is what I've wanted to write about, but haven't been able to spit out.

Okay, enough suspense!

My husband and I are planning to adopt.

In some ways we're out of the metaphorical “first trimester.” We have a completed home study (yay!). We're going through the matching process. In other ways, we're still there.  We don't know if or how or when our next child (or children) will come home. It's exciting, but confusing. In some ways it's private, yet in other ways not. For instance, we want our friends and family to have time to adjust, too, before we say “oh by the way, we're adopting, and Child 1 and Child 2 are coming home next weekend!”

I know that since we have a 15-month-old daughter, many of you may be thinking we are adopting an infant, or perhaps a toddler from another country. And undoubtedly babies and toddlers from other places need good stable homes, too. However, we feel steered in another direction.

We want to adopt one or two older children from right here in Minnesota. Because they need families, too. Because there are plenty of great kids who live in this great state who have no idea when – or if – they will have a permanent home and a forever family.

We've tried our best to do our homework. We've gone to trainings and parent groups, read books and watched videos. We pray a lot.  We've talked with friends, families, and people who have “been there.” So we know that the children waiting for adoption in Minnesota have been through varying degrees of really hard times.  We know that their tough times mean that we will also have some tough times as a family – growing pains, time for us all to adjust, and so on - but we're going for it.  We believe God will be with us every step of the way - and our good friends and family members will, too.  We believe in moments of joy and healing.  We believe in the family we will become.

So how do I wrap this up? I could tell you that we have a meeting in about a week which will either take us much closer, or back to square one. (Which is true.) I could ask you to pray. (Please do.) I could request that you refrain from cautionary statements. (Remember, we're doing our best to prepare.) Or, I could just say...

The End

(And The Beginning!)