Because sometimes things are really good

He’d only been home maybe a week or so. I walked into the boys’ bedroom and saw the crayon scribbles on the wall and all over the dresser. Normal kid stuff.  I sat down to talk to him, in very simple English, about not coloring on the walls. That’s the first time I saw it. It’s etched in my memory forever. The fear. He was shaking. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was not there. He had retreated inside of himself to a place where he was safe. This protected him from the horrible things that he had experienced, a life I had not yet learned anything about.

This routine would continue for years. It was hard to watch, hard to be a part of. I tried not to take it personally. Eventually it started making me angry. I went through years of blaming myself, hating myself for the reaction that I caused my son every time he did something naughty. He flinched when I came near him. He retreated to his inner world sometimes more than he was with us. Eventually we had the diagnosis of PTSD and an attachment disorder, but neither of those prevented me from feeling like it was me. After all, his reactions were in response to ME. It wore on my heart and my mind so heavily.

I would sit in his therapists’ office asking her what was wrong with me. Why didn’t I feel the way I was supposed to feel about my child? He was the darling of the orphanage. Everyone adored him. I was obviously a horrible, terrible, evil, miserable person if I didn’t wake up each and every day excited to parent this child. I dubbed myself an “orphan hater” to jokingly disguise the turmoil I was feeling inside. And I didn’t dare tell anyone. Oh no.  That would be the worst thing I could do. They would just confirm everything that I already believed about myself.

Then one day a dear therapist friend (with experience with children and trauma) said words that become my safety when it all got too bad inside: “You cannot attach to a child with an attachment disorder. Attachment takes two people.” I had read much on attachment. So many books to tell me everything I was doing wrong.  Why didn’t anyone tell me this? Why were these words, words that gave me peace and sadness at the same time, so absent? I finally just accepted a forced and sometimes strained relationship. I grieved a great deal, for his future and for a loss of hope. I gave up the fight.

Months ago we started seeing glimmers. I went to his parent/teacher conference and his teacher told me that he talks about the new baby all the time. What? He didn’t show much interest at home.  Then it started at home. He’d lie on the floor next to the baby reading book after book. If she fussed he’d quickly choose a new book , convinced that she just didn’t like that book. He’d do this daily for as long as she could stand. I’d peer around the corner watching them. It was all so natural, so easy.

The glimmers continued. He was allowing himself to get bad grades. (Woohoo!) He even talked back to me. (Woohoo!) His communication and body language was becoming more natural and less contrived. I was seeing a new boy. He was suddenly no longer the people pleaser. He was just……him. He was the boy I always saw deep down inside that I wanted to know so desperately for so long. The people that fawned over him for years, I always wanted to tell them that what they were fawning over wasn’t real….there was something so much better deep down inside. There was an amazing young man that had more to offer the world. What they were seeing was a scared little boy that simply became whatever it was that he thought they wanted him to be. No more. That scared little boy was dying away and it was becoming more and more clear.

This past weekend we played Risk together as a family and one by one children were sent to bed (Risk brings out the worst in people and that often results in time outs. In your bed. For the rest of the night. This is why we don’t play Risk often. And I won’t again until my kids are old enough to drink, but I digress.) My newly confident young man was the only one left at the table. He made a witty comment about what blood thirsty heathens the rest of the kids were. We laughed together…naturally. It was one of the most joyful exchanges of my life.

That very first crayon on the walls incident happened exactly five years ago. We are just now truly building a real relationship together. His fear and loss have certainly not just gone away. No. That will be a lifelong battle. But his therapist remarked the other day, “He seems so joyful, so real. He is finally trusting.” Five long years. Those years broke me apart and made me different in ways I haven’t even discovered yet. I can’t wait to see our relationship grow. I can’t wait for his next joke. I can’t wait for his next sarcastic comment. I can’t wait for the next time he looks at me and smiles.  The light at the end of the tunnel just got a lot bigger.

Nature verus nurture: Ha. Ha. Ha.

This is my baby. She is four months old. Yeah, she’s pretty cute. We like her. She’s also pretty demanding. Don’t get me wrong, she’s one of the happiest little beings on the earth……as long as she’s getting her way and has people showering her with affection. I know what you’re saying, “Ummm….all babies are like that.” No they’re not. You have no idea what you’re talking about. This baby….she’s going to have opinions and lots of them. I see that spark, that scowl. Now you’re saying, “My God. Not one of these people.” Listen here! I know what I’m talking about.

Last week we had parent-teacher conferences at the elementary school. My two younger kiddos all had good grades so I went to the conferences expecting to walk away feeling like the greatest parent under the sun.  Instead I walked out saying to myself: “Why does it even matter? It’s hopeless. SOBBBB!”

 Let me start with the mini-me, my 3^rd grader. Once I told a therapist that this child was just like me. She scowled and implied I wasn’t treating my son as an individual. She can officially shut up. What did my parents hear at my parent teacher conferences? “She’s sloppy.” “She puts in minimal effort.” “She could do great things if she actually put some work into it.” “There’s so much potential there.” Certainly I could raise my kids to not be this way. I live in the era of child psychology and infant slings! I am so much wiser than my parents! What did I hear at my son’s parent teacher conference? “He’s sloppy.” “He puts in minimal effort.” “He could do great thing if he actually put some work into it.” “There’s so much potential there.” Nature – 1. Nurture – 0.

Then we went to talk to the conference of my husband’s mini-me, our 1^st grade daughter. What did my mother-in-law hear when my husband was in 1^st grade? “He talks a lot.” “He finishes his assignments but doesn’t turn them in. It’s perplexing.” “He falls out of his desk.” What did we hear from our child’s teacher? “You see that desk way over there away from everyone? That’s where your daughter sits for now until she can learn to stop talking all the time. Oh, and this is a stack of thirteen assignments I found in your child’s desk. They are done and she never turned them in.” The teacher did not give us any information on our child’s issues with gravity. I assume this was because she felt sorry for us. My daughter informed us the next day of her tendency to randomly fall from desk to floor. Nature – 2. Nurture – 0.

While I didn’t walk away from parent-teacher conferences feeling like the greatest parent under the sun, I walked away with an appreciation for who my kids are. I cannot change them, just like my mother couldn’t change me and my mother-in-law couldn’t change my husband. We are who we are. I don’t need to fight or reprimand. I just need to enjoy. Talk about a whole lot of weight taken off my shoulders.

This little baby is lucky. Her mom has learned through experience that there isn’t a whole lot that can be done to turn an individual with my or my husband’s genetic makeup into a Rhode’s Scholars, or Nobel Prize winning physicists, or Gandhi.  There’s every chance of them becoming sarcastic and argumentative and gloriously happy with the simple little life that’s ahead of them.

I’m thankful for the six people that the universe has entrusted me with. They are neat (and very challenging) people. It’s through learning to love and accept their unique and special personalities that I've learned to love and accept my own challenging personality. Kids are great like that. 

Quacks: Professionals that give the good guys a bad name

I have found so much comfort in Freckles having an amazing and gifted therapist at the facility that he's in. It's the first time I've actually witnessed something being "done" to treat trauma and grief. This therapist gets it and he has a plan. Freckles has never had a plan. I've begged for a plan. He's had grown ups with initials behind their names that merely nod their heads and say, "Uh huh. Okay. We'll see you in two weeks." I couldn't figure out what these individuals were being paid for. They brought nothing to the table. Nothing. I was losing hope in the field in general and began questioning my own arrogance. Then we found Freckles' current therapist and hope returned. THIS is what it's supposed to look like. My annoyance with these therapist was not arrogance, but frustration over what I knew was wrong. 

We've been in the market for a new therapist since we've moved here. This has not gone well. No, it has not. The first therapist simply didn't work with the rest of the treatment team. This led to a lot of problems and complications. Her refusal to share information could have caused some MAJOR problems and while I liked her, I don't think I could ever trust her again. NEXT! Then there was the lady that diagnosed my son with multiple personality disorder and stated my son might have to be institutionalized for the rest of his life (this is without meeting my child, mind you). She also suggested that I had no idea what I was getting into when we adopted (You're right. We had NO IDEA we'd be met with such idiotic mental health professionals.) NEXT! We started with a team of two therapists. I had great hope, mostly because they used the term "treatment plan". You see, my expectations had been so shattered that the mere use of the phrase "treatment plan" made me think these people knew what they were doing. They ended up committing insurance fraud against our insurance company. They gave me the diagnosis of reactive attachment disorder and claimed they were treating me for it. NEXT! 

Why does this have to be so difficult? I've never had unreasonable expectations. I don't need someone that's perfect. Not at all. I'm simply looking for someone that knows a bit about trauma, is willing to work as a team, and isn't unethical. I'm currently reading Collaborative Treatment of Traumatized Children and Teens: The Trauma Systems Therapy Approach by Julie Kaplow. THIS is what I want. This is what traumatized children need. They need a team that works together to provide the right environment for said child. I'm realizing not only is it okay to have high expectations, it's necessary for my kids' well being.

I want more for my kids. They deserve it. Now I have to put the pieces together. 

Standardized testing will ruin the world

I'm going to tell you a very sad story. I expect pity. Loads of it.

Yesterday I sat staring aimlessly out the window as the kids played around me. "Why don't I have a hobby?", I asked myself. "If I knitted, or painted, or sewed, or liked to cook I could be doing those things right now. But I don't like those things. In fact, I hate them all. I could go for a walk but it's dark. I feel compelled to write about this. That would keep me occupied" Never in those moments did I realize that writing is my hobby.

When I was a kid I used to write all the time. For fun I would write research papers about sharks. My parents were proud of me. While my husband was skipping school and getting drunk with his friends (okay, he was in college during my childhood), I was writing words down on paper for fun. My teachers told me I was a good writer. My childhood identity was the scrawny girl that kept to herself and wrote a lot. I loved English class and persuasive writing. When I grew up I was going to be a photojournalist and travel around the world dodging bullets in the name of the free press. Oh, and Lloyd Bentsen was going to be vice president.

Then I moved to Texas. You see, Texas ruins everything. Texas is where dreams go to die. Back before No Child Left Behind was destroying the will to live for students everywhere, Texas was doing it first. I was a junior in high school at the time and the previous year my peers had taken the Texas standardized test that all students at the end of their sophomore year have to take. In order to be a junior, one had to take this test. So I took the test. I did well on math and reading. I almost didn't pass the writing segment. I was crushed. At that point I stopped writing. I stopped paying attention in English class. My grammar sucks today because I refused to learn anything in high school English. I can't tell the difference between my left toe and a past participle, and I, tend to, you know, overuse commas.

As a semi-grown-up I now realize why I failed that stupid, ASININE standardized test. I hadn't been taught to write to the test. I almost failed because I had never been instructed in the three paragraph essay model, which might be the most boring form of writing on the planet. You see, my previous teachers saw my love for writing and encouraged it. They didn't set up a frame work. They let me run. They were awesome.

It's taken me years to feel comfortable with exploring my love for writing again. Writing anything feels presumptuous. Sharing my writing with anyone is almost torture. Thank you standardized testing. I blame you for everything.

Now my kids are being subjected to this garbage. Here they call it "Sunshine State Standards". I suppose that's supposed to make it sound happy and fun. When my kid came home from school a few weeks ago and said the reading guidelines made him feel dumb, I got angry. Really angry. Like smoke coming out of my ears angry. I called the school and used the word "asinine", which is my favorite word to use. This made me realize something, I have an advantage that my parents didn't have. Standardized testing and accountability were new concepts when I took that eternally dream-crushing exam. My parents didn't have any idea what that test was and what it was used for. Now "standardized testing" is a household phrase and through mockery and heavy use of the word asinine, I think my kids will take them with an eye roll and a "oh my gosh this is the stupidest thing ever". They won't use it to judge themselves. Dreams have a shot at growing. 

I miss my son

Yesterday I received some pictures via email that were taken in a photo booth at my brother's wedding. My son's face was covered by a silly mask, but that smile was unmistakable. It was big and it was honest. That smile is the source of any hope I have for his future. In that smile you see his potential. Seeing that hope on his face made me miss him so much.

My son and I are close. I am his comfort and safety. He is my laughter and joy. These wonderful attributes, unfortunately, are no match for mental illness and trauma. They are necessary to conquer the pain, but there is more to healing than love, laughter and comfort. Sometimes there is just too much hurt.

We had to send our son away. This is a decision that I will carry with me forever. He's in a treatment facility four hours away from us. He's been apart from our family for almost two months now. He's happy, he's healthy and he's getting exactly what he needs so he can rejoin our family. We aren't sure how long he's going to be gone. That depends on many factors, not the least of which is our insurance company. Our goal is that with this treatment he will be able to live into his potential and be the person we know he is destined to be.

It's amazing how quiet things are around here. Yes, everything is easier. I'm beginning to question whether that's a good thing. I find myself praying less, thinking about God less, and needing no one. Life hasn't gotten easier. I've just traded one struggle for another.....even as everything seems perfect.

For now we will continue our hope. My son hopes. We hope. We know this won't be a solution. It will simply be the start of a new journey. 

What if I really am just a bad mom?

As we struggle with providers and insurance carriers to put residential treatment into place, I can't help but feel like a failure. Here I am, fighting to get my kids moved away from us for a period of time. The doctor says, "But he's so good!" I know he is. His goodness doesn't change the fact that he is struggling so hard in a world that hurts so much. Good, sweet, loving kids struggle with mental illness too.

Once upon a time he acted out everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean everywhere. For a period of time, he struggled more at school than he did at home. Now he struggles more at home than he does at school. It's all private, which makes it look like the problem is me, especially when we're 2,000 miles from anyone that's witnessed the behavior. I've received denials from our insurance company, suggesting that our issues would be solved with family therapy. I've seen the look on people's faces that say, "WE don't have a problem with him so you're obviously a bad mother." (Thankfully this DOES NOT come from my child's school. They are wonderful.) I've read the literature. I understand why his behaviors are so significant at home. Regardless, I find myself falling into the trap that says the problem is me. I'm just a bad mom.

The belief is arrogant really. The kid endured a decade of horrendous trauma. And I think his two years with me was the source of all this? Why would I believe these lies? Because there's an entire world out there that is thinking, "I could do it better." Judgement is so much easier than doing the really hard work involved in supporting children that come from hard places.

Right now we're all very scared for many different reasons. There are so many feelings surrounding this and feeling like a failure does not make things better. Our biggest fear is, "What if this doesn't work?" I've thought it. My husband's thought it. Our son has asked the question out loud. What if this doesn't work? I have no idea what the answer to that question is, nor do I even want to pursue it. Right now we're resting our hope on residential treatment. We don't expect it to work miracles. We don't expect it to "fix" anything. Our goal is allowing our son to feel comfortable and safe enough to begin exploring his trauma, rather than stuffing it down so tight inside of himself that it can't help but explode when it becomes too much. We are hoping that outpatient therapy might start becoming effective if he lays the groundwork in residential treatment. More than anything, we need to do whatever we can to keep him in our home and out of the system. This, right now, is our only option.

If you're reading this, we need your prayers. We need BIG prayers. Please pray that our insurance approves this swiftly and without requiring an appeal. Please pray that the facility doesn't deem his behaviors to severe for admission into their facility. Please pray for our son as he endures the pain of all of this. And please pray that my husband and I are willing to stand strong and be the parents we have to be for this delightful child.

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore. 
-Lord Byron

My soul is full of longing
For the secret of the sea,
And the heart of the great ocean
Send a thrilling pulse through me
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul. The touch of the sea is sensuous, enfolding the body in its soft, close embrace. 
-Kate Chopin


Sometimes it's easy to forget that my son is different. He's endured trauma and horrors beyond my comprehension. I don't know why I forget. The trauma is always brewing right on the edge...either in him or in me. It's like this entity that's always lurking over our heads. Yet I found myself saying to my husband tonight, "I don't get it, when I was that age........." My husband stopped me. "Remember, we're not dealing with your average 10-year-old." How could I forget?

We're constantly struggling with boredom. I know what you're thinking but no, it's not that kind of boredom. It's more than that. It's like nothing matters. No activity, no engagement means anything. While kids are out riding bikes, running through the neighborhood, playing with friends......I have one child that sits alone with nothing to do. A room full of toys, shelves stacked with books, a garage stuffed with sporting goods and there's nothing to play with. A beautiful park a block away, every sporting field you could want just across the street, a drug store and money burning a hole in his pocket, and there's nowhere to go. I've purchased tool kits, rockets, crafts, puzzles, games, you name it. Nothing is worth expelling energy on. I've encouraged sports teams, music lessons, church clubs. Only emptiness. And then frightening anger at the emptiness and the boredom. Sometimes it feels hopeless.

There are moments where the boredom in conquered. It's like he's a "normal", "average" child. The smiles are real and they're easy. There is peace. When we go to the beach, everything else goes away. No trauma. No hurt. I see the child he should have been. I never want to leave. I don't think he does either. It's perfection. I've never had anything create so much peace for my child. No medication or therapy has ever healed like the beach does. Is it the calming sound of the waves? The smell? The breeze? I have no idea. All I know is the fear melts away and we get to see him. And it's beautiful.

I'm so thankful to have this opportunity.