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.

How to walk though it together.

When my oldest two came home from Ethiopia, I had no idea what to expect. I mean, I read the books. I talked to other adoptive families. I prepared for disaster (to be more specific, I prepared for murder). When people asked what they could do to help, I had no idea what to say. I didn't know what our needs would be. It took time to figure out how my family could be served. It took time to realize that my family needed to be served. It took time to feel okay with the idea of being served.

I was very lucky. I had amazing friends that held my hand through it all. When I needed help, they listened and acted. I had very supportive parents that were willing to drive seven hours one way to come to our aid. I had a very dear church that walked us through. These people are why I'm still standing and why this family is still going strong. The impact they've had on our lives is on my mind daily. What they did for me was nothing short of miraculous.

Now that so many of these people are thousands of miles away, I find myself thinking of the things that I'm lacking and it scares me a little. I decided that what's missing is an honest look at my needs and an understanding of where I need help. If you're in the process of adoption, this might be something to think about. If you're wanting to walk along side a family that is adopting an older child, maybe you can get some ideas here.

1. Food. Bringing food is the first thing people think of when a child is welcomed into a family and it's important for adoptive families too. Having a meal loving prepared for you makes life so much easier, but it also says "I care". Having food brought to me didn't just make life easier for me, it helped me to see that I wasn't alone and I had people I could count on. For my children (especially the one's that were new to our family), it helped them to see that they had a community. Many of our children come from cultures that support one another heavily. Making food for one another is a regular thing. My kids often comment how disconnected American society is. Having people bring us food gives them that feeling of community (or safety), and it also helps them to realize that they matter. Food is the global language of love.

I had people that prepared a meal for me outside of the initial homecoming period. In fact, I had a group of women that prepared food for me weekly for some time after my kids had been home a year. Talk about feeling loved!!

2. Phone calls. I love phone calls. I hate that sometimes I can't talk, but I know my friends will call back if I have to go put out a fire. These phone calls are my outlet, my therapy, my peace and my sanity. I have a dear friend in Boston. I know that when I talk to her, whatever we're going through, however impossible it may seem, she will make me laugh. When I get off the phone with her it's like I can conquer the world. I can say really awful, terrible things and she'll say really awful, terrible things right along with me. And then we'll giggle and make a joke about about poop or something. These phone calls are a treasured gift that I never take for granted.

3. The "I'll drop anything for you" friends. These people amaze me. They will drop whatever they've got going on to come to your rescue because you're in crisis. They stay calm. They keep you calm. They don't say things like, "You're kid did what? Get rid of him!" No, they say things like, "Okay. We've got this. What do we need to do next. Here, have a beer." These are the people that you can say, "I know I haven't talked to you in months, but I need you right now." No questions asked, they'll be there. I had a great core group back home. They were heroes. Find them. Be one of these people if you can. You will make an incredible difference in the life of a child.

4. Non-judgement. Until you've witnessed your nightmares coming true, you cannot judge a family walking the path of older child adoption. That's not to say that sometimes I don't need people to keep me on the path. I do. I sometimes find myself treading into the waters of nastiness, and a kind word from my husband or a close friend can help me get back on that path. What doesn't help is, "Oh my gosh. I can't believe she's thinking about residential treatment. I could NEVER do that to my child. The poor kid." It's human to think those things. It's cruel to say them out loud. The truth is, until you've done this you have no idea what it can do to you. I far too often say to myself, "I used to be a good mom." I used to be a mother that didn't yell. I used to be a mother that always had a loving smile for her child. I used to be the mother that always used positive reinforcement and stayed far away from punitive discipline. I used to be a kind, selfless mother. Sometimes I still see her, but now I'm a more honest mother. I'm a more human mother. I think I can better relate to the mothers throughout the world that are struggling with hardships (although I do appreciate that worldwide, my struggles are far easier that most mothers). I'm a mother that no longer judges. I'm a mother that's been brought to her knees so many times. I'm a mother that wants to stand with other mothers through hard times and big mistakes. If you can be that fellow mother for someone else, do it!

I had a lovely friend that visited me once a week in my home. She would sit with me and let me say my deepest, darkest thoughts. She had no judgement for me. Instead, she shared with me her shame. She was older and wiser than I was, but she never let me feel that. Her heart and understanding will resonate with me forever.

5. Purpose. I don't think I'm alone in my need for purpose. Yes, I adopted because I wanted a big family and I love older kids. But it's not the only reason. I get in trouble when I believe that this is the only reason. I adopted older children because it's where I felt that God was calling us to. I never believed in a calling from God before it happened. It was something I tried to deny but could not. I need to know that my decision to adopt was bigger than my wants. When it's all about you, it's easier to run away when things don't turn out the way you'd hoped.

I don't like it when people call me a saint. (If you knew how much beer I drank, you certainly wouldn't say that.) I don't like it when people imply that I'm good. (God is good. I am not.) What I appreciate is when people respect our calling and treat it like a ministry. When people make that acknowledgment I feel supported. I feel a sense of duty and purpose. I wake up feeling that I matter. I don't need ridiculous platitudes. Don't pinch my cheeks and pat me on the head. I am a serious person facing a serious battle. This is my calling and it's tested me more than anything I've ever done. I've walked though the desert and I've witnessed miracles. Please let me feel like I'm part of the Kingdom of Heaven so I can continue walking.

Normally I like to preface everything I say with "but this is just me". When it comes to the above, I don't think it's just me. In fact, I think we ALL need these things wherever we are in our lives, no matter who we are. These are fundamental, basic human needs. Sadly, so often we don't get these things in our community and we fail.

I know it's not something I'm supposed to say, but if I didn't receive all of the the above, our adoption would have ended in disruption. There's no doubt in my mind. Those people that stood by and helped me up, helped these children up. I value their contribution to my kids as much as I value my own. Anyone can serve the fatherless, the orphan. Sometimes doing so is being the support for a mother and father that are in the midst of the struggles of adoption. Don't be afraid to be that person, and don't be afraid to let those people in. 

Paradise: More than just the beaches

Don't get me wrong, the beaches are nice too.

For over two years now I've tried to be an advocate for my child. I failed. I was a horrible advocate. I couldn't get anyone to listen to me. I watched my kids struggle and suffer, both mentally and physically and no one would listen. I tried. I really did. At some point I gave up. I was obviously wrong and didn't know what I was doing. Inside I was screaming. Red flags were going up everywhere. I was dismissed, ignored, laughed at. It was probably the most painful experience of my life. I watched my kids slipping with nothing that I could do.

I've been in Paradise for a month now and have asked for nothing from doctors and educators. Nothing. Instead they've brought it to me.

"Why is your oldest son taking less of the same medication than your son two years younger?"
"I don't know. I tried to get them to adjust it but they said I was wrong."

"Why is your daughter taking a medication that is going to lead to antibiotic resistance?"
"I don't know. I asked and they said it was necessary."

"Why didn't they refer your son for a cardiologist when he began clutching his chest while playing soccer?"
"I don't know. They just shrugged their shoulders."

"Why did no one follow up with this?"
"I don't know. I asked and no one would do anything."

"Your son is really struggling academically. Do you have any suggestions?"
"No. The school never made a plan for him. They implied that we should be more patient."

"We'll schedule a meeting the first week of school to discuss the academic plan for your daughter."
"A meeting? I get a meeting?"

"Are you familiar with EMDR?"
<Sobs of joy.>

This is only a few of the conversations I've had since we've been here. I don't mean to disparage the education system and the medical community in Idaho. I know there are fabulous people everywhere, I simply just never found the assistance when we lived there. That might be my fault. I don't know. That doesn't matter. What matters is we're getting what we need now.

For the first time since I've entered the world of older child adoption I feel like I have professionals on my side have tremendous experience and understanding. I don't have to fight anymore. I can trust the people that care for my child. I can be a mother. I've found paradise. 

Almost there

We are finally getting it together. Planning for a move, moving across the country and getting a new home and life set up takes a lot out of you. It all sends everyone into a fury of sadness, excitement, hopefulness and longing for the old. Yet at some point, you finally get your grip and slowly start to come out of the fog and into the sunshine. We're finding that sunshine.

Yesterday on a three hour drive back up to our little community outside the big city, we felt like the family we were and it was good. There was so much laughter and fun. For upwards of three months I haven't recognized my family. This was not who we were. We were missing the one fundamental aspect of what makes us who we are, and that is joy. Happiness and a good time aren't enough. It is joy that defines us.

Last night I went to bed with so much joy in my heart. We're back!

Longing

REACH 2011

Right now I have many friends that are preparing for REACH Camp. They'll all be there today, celebrating and sharing for the long weekend. When I said goodbye to them last year, I didn't know that we wouldn't be returning. I thought for sure we would be. As soon as we left we started counting down the days until we returned.

Instead of making camp preparations myself, I sit crying at my dining room table reflecting on how much those people mean to me. Our struggles and fears were the same. We talked about them, shared very personal stories, and celebrated life and our God together. It was a week to live authentically, honestly, without fear of judgement. Oh, what a gift.

What if we could all live like that everyday, in community with incredible support and understanding. With compassion and joy to light up the world. What if we always had a song on our lips, and a smile for both the new and the old. What if race, socioeconomic status, special need, or health status didn't divide us. What if we all came to the table sharing the same food, spending time on the same activities, and actively working to build friendships.

I'll always be incredibly thankful for the time I had with fellow REACH families and the amazing volunteers. They've truly touched our lives. 

The first week of school is hell

This was the first week of school. It was not fun. My kids were irresponsible heathens (okay, they weren't really that bad) and I was super cranky evil villain mom (yes, I was really that bad). Forget to bring me your lunch box when you get home from school, I will shoot fire from my eye balls. Leave your homework in the middle of your bedroom floor, I will incinerate you with my evil glare. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I hated every minute of it.

The first week or two of school is always hell. I have to nag my kids into submission towards responsibility. Well, not all of my kids. The older kids have already been sufficiently nagged and know that 30-minutes long lectures are in store for them if they don't exhibit responsibility for their school work. The little ones still haven't figured it all out. Maybe they still like to be nagged. I don't know. All I know is "remembering" at the last minute that you left your homework crumbled on the floor of your bedroom is NOT the way I like to start the morning. As I say to my children, "That's totally uncool."

I rely heavily on natural consequences. I love them. I find that we live in a society that's really not down with natural consequences. When my children aren't prepared, people assume that I'm overwhelmed. I got a call from a teacher yesterday about homework not being completed. She started with, "I know you've got a lot on your plate with five children......." Whoa. Stop right there. How does parenting five children have ANYTHING to do with my child's choice not to complete his homework? He's given ample time and space. Gentle reminders. A firm understanding of expectations. Opportunity for help if it's too hard. Yet the assumption is I must be overwhelmed because I'm not afraid to allow my children to suffer the consequences of their own choices? (In fairness to her, I think she's used to really defensive parents and was trying to be fair to me.) This assumption happens more often that I'm okay with.

I know that if I continue to maintain my expectations for organization, responsibility, and behavior, in two or three weeks we will be back in a successful routine. Kids are capable little creatures. They learn quickly. We will be joyful soon because we are living up to our best, which gives us time to relax. I often get comments about having a large family and how difficult it must be (which is weird, because I don't consider our family large). It's not difficult when you insist that your child live up to their potential on the simple stuff. When we are at our best, this family is a well oiled machine.

When we are not at our best I threaten my children with the father from the original "Cheaper by the Dozen" movie. "Do you want me to parent like that guy? Don't make me go all old school. I'll do it. Just try me." This usually makes them smile a bit, but they know I'm dead serious. They appreciate that their mother is a complete and total nutbag. 

Dude makes me look reasonable.

A big deal...a REALLY big deal

Tonight Freckles, my beautiful 10-year-old son, brought me four letters that were sent to him by John and I while he was waiting at the orphanage in Ethiopia. I remember writing these letters and thinking how stupid it was to be writing in English to someone that doesn't even speak English let alone read it. Regardless, I wrote the stupid letters because it was the only way that I had to connect to my child. As I wrote the simple words, I remember feeling a sense of awe knowing that my son's hands would grip the paper while he looked over my incomprehensible gibberish. It would be our first connection.

When he brought the letters to me tonight, I asked him if he wanted me to read them to him. He nodded while hiding an anxious smile on his face. As I read the words that I had written probably three years ago, I recalled how different our life looked then. I was a different person. It was a different time. My world had not yet been changed. Our paths had not yet crossed (or rather collided, if I'm being honest). I hadn't yet known the strength that I had within me or what it was like to battle trauma and grief in the name of love and hope. When I read those words, I felt a sense of humility over the fact that I still felt what I wrote at that time (or at least I felt it again). It was a powerful experience for me, but then I turned to look at Freckles.

He stood next to me hanging on to every single word, the words that I wished he could have known and internalized three years ago. He couldn't know it then, even if he could have read the words. They were a mere jumble of letters, not actions. Even if he had understood those words at the time, they would have been mere platitudes of affection from yet another stranger from a foreign land. But now they were real. He had felt what those words meant. He was beaming. Literally beaming.

After I finished reading the letters he merely nodded. There was nothing to say. We gave each other a knowing smile and I asked him if he wanted me to store those letters in his keepsake box. (He did.) He walked away from me with something new, something I haven't seen in him before. For the first time I saw him embrace comfortably how much he is loved. He was confident in his worthiness of such adoration. He wasn't giggling or acting silly. He was thoughtful, knowing, receptive.

Those letters were not written for the day they were received by him. They were written for that moment, and for his future.

This is such an incredible turning point for the two of us. We have many struggles ahead of us, no doubt. But we are building an incredible foundation. It took a lot of time and hurt, but it's starting to form. And it's good. 

We're home.

It was a long drive. Roughly 3,000 miles. What matters most is it was an uneventful drive. Sure, we had to deal with some ridiculous sibling bickering and tattling from the littlest two in the back seat (why I decided to sit them together, I have no idea) but it wouldn't be a family road trip without it. We all drove from the Pacific Northwest to South Florida TOGETHER without incident. Hallelujah!

We arrived at our new home on Tuesday, a day earlier than expected. Since then, I've lost count of the wow's and the big smiles of joys over new and exciting things. The big kids are thrilled that they can walk down to the drug store to buy candy by themselves. The little ones are excited that there are about 1 billion lizards to catch. They are all excited about the beautiful beach that's just a short, beautiful drive away. John and I are loving the people and the small-town friendliness. What a wonderful place to call home.

There are moments of homesickness for Idaho, and I'm sure those moments will continue for years. We loved living there and we miss our friends. We are all so far away from family that it's a little overwhelming at times. The beautiful thing about this place is there is such great opportunity to reflect. There is peace. Nature abounds with its soothing sounds, smells, and pace. I cannot think of anywhere better to be sad and miss the past, whether it's friends in Idaho or a life far away in Ethiopia.

Last night after dinner we all walked down to the beach about a mile down the road. The day had cooled into a relaxing evening, making it a perfect opportunity to enjoy family time in a quiet and calm manner (as opposed to the boogie boarding craziness in the surf). We found coconuts and looked at the new and strange tropical plants. We found funny little crabs that live along the road under the trees. We walked across the draw bridge on the intercoastal waterway and dreamed of navigating a sailboat through the beautiful waters. We found vines hanging from trees to swing on. At the beach, we sat at the edge of the grass and watched the gentle waves as the sun set behind us. A man was playing music on his guitar, lending a pleasant soundtrack to a beautiful night. When we walked home the lightening bugs came out, adding even more perfection to a wonderful evening together. I hope we never take any of this for granted. I hope my kids always see the simple things as magical.

Time to start another day of unpacking and making this our home. 

Almost there

Check out those palm trees.

It's almost here. In just over a week we'll start our journey south to our new home. It will take 10 long days to get there, but we're all ready to go. And by all of us, I mean ALL of us. Yep, all 7 of us will be traveling together. I'm thrilled!

Our stuff made it to the new house today. All it's missing is us. 

For everything there is a season

Bliss.

Can life settle down again? Please? Pretty please? We've lived in a constant state of change and stress for 8 years now. Deployments, pregnancies, adoption, more adoption, more deployment, trauma, more trauma, move across country, even more trauma. ENOUGH! 

I can't wait to put my feet up on the beach. Feel the sand in my toes, the skin cancer producing rays beating down on me. I can't wait to watch most of my kids laugh and delight in days spent next to beautifully clear blue ocean water. I can't wait to ride my bike down Beach Rd., to the Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse and back everyday. I can't wait to come home to a fridge full of delicious homebrewed beer. I will pull the tap and fill a glass without the least bit of guilt.

For a while, I'm going to be living the life of the "spoiled, unconcerned American" that everyone I know seems to loathe. I. DON'T. CARE. We've got an opportunity that I will not take for granted. This is the time to put the past behind us. We get to nurture our family. What's the point of adopting and working to help heal children from trauma if we are too burnt out to be the calm, focused parent that they need?

I am working to create an environment of NO obligations. NO causes to care about. There is only one cause that matters right now, and that is serving these people that I call my children. These hands and feet are planted firmly at home. 


I will be the embodiment of apathy. I simply do not care. I'm not even registering to vote. I will not know what's going on in the world and may not even be able to point to my country on a map. I might shower daily, but I'm not committed to that yet.

Update: We have opted to put residential treatment off as long as possible. It will likely be a necessity in the future, but we are going to do what we can to avoid it. If you find us chopped to bits, then this decision was a mistake.

Well that changes things

For the first time in two years I woke up without worrying what kind of day it would be. The tension in my chest that I've gotten so used to isn't there anymore. I'm not on edge. I'm not impatient. I'm at peace. What kind of person am I to feel this way at such a time? A very normal person, that's who.

Last week we had to admit one of our children into inpatient psychiatric. He is going to be moved to a residential treatment facility within the next two weeks. We don't know how long he'll be there. We hope it's no more than 90 days, but I'm going to be realistic. I've spent the past two years minimizing and clinging to small victories. Those small victories were among the most beautiful moments I could ever experience, but they were not enough to build a happy and safe family.

We are not giving up. Faithfulness doesn't always lead to success. That's a lie that humanity has built as an excuse to neglect those scary things that what we know are right. Often faithless leads to pain and we are called to endure it. In this time I know I'm not called to give up. Residential treatment is not giving up. It is a season. No matter what happens, I feel very confident that it all serves a greater plan.

And I'm so joyful that I've got nothing to cling to but faith. 

Not a moment too soon

I love our home. Boise is lovely. While it is a fantastic place for families and those that love the outdoors, it's not the best place for people with medical and/or psychological needs. After our first adoption, I found myself lacking guidance and assistance by experienced, knowledgeable professionals. I often felt dismissed and found that services that were offered in other places aren't offered here. I always blamed myself for my frustration, believing that I was expecting far too much. Last week our primary care doc informed me that pediatric specialties are seriously lacking here and that we'll be getting so much more for our kids where we're going. I was giddy.

I can already tell by talking to different providers in our new tropical home that things will be different. We'll have options and some of the best facilities in the country. Because of this, I'm feeling so much joy in regards to this move. We'll certainly miss friends and the life we had here, but in this season we desperately need the expertise of medical professionals that have a great deal of experience dealing with children with my kids' medical diagnosis. Not to mention, a fantastic assortment of mental health professionals and resources for crisis.

Florida has a lot of issues, no doubt. We'll be facing racism for the first time. Classism is rampant. There seems to be a prevalence of values that I'm simply not used to. BUT...this is life. This is the world. Imperfect.  Flawed. Rather gross at times. I'm not worried about that. We're in a season of our life where excellent health care is VITAL. I feel that battles are being lost here, and very important battles are not being fought.

I'm breathing a sigh of relief, feeling confident that my kids are going to be receiving the best care possible. 

What hope looks like

Freckles: He lives in 1975.

Today Freckles has been home for two years. It's been a very challenging two years with a lot of heartache on both sides. The other day we heard the following:

"I feel like the old [Freckles]."

We asked him what that meant. He explained that he felt like the Freckles before the orphanage, before he lost everything, before he endured a hurt beyond comprehension. He felt like himself....the sweet, kind, loving, brilliant, delightful little boy that we knew was there all along. 

This is what real, honest, beautiful hope looks like. 

Where we became a family

I made this for the kids so whenever they were homesick they could watch this and remember this special place that will always be home. I still can't believe how much has changed in five years.

Growing solidarity

I wouldn't be the first the state that military life either destroys or strengthens a family. I'm not sure there's much room for middle ground. You either choose to make the most of the experience, or you let the inevitable hardships become a breeding ground for resentment. It's a choice.

I value our experiences as a military family, even if they are painful at times. While moving isn't abnormal for any family, I found myself growing resentment towards the military as I held a crying, grieving child that was accepting the reality that he was leaving the only home he's known. That resentment is too easy to embrace when your children are affected by military life.

As hard and sad as it is, I'm thankful for this move. These are the experiences that help strengthen the foundation of our family. Where we are going, none of us has lived. No one has an advantage. We are all new people in a new place. Strangers in a strange land. All the memories will be built together. I imagine it's hard to be the new kid in the family, and with this move none of us are new. And that is good. We all get to feel as if we are on equal footing.

Strength is also built in working together to remain healthy and optimistic as we are transient for a month. The first night we leave our home we'll sit around a campfire and TOGETHER reflect on the hard feelings that deeply affect each of us.

When we open the door to our new home, we'll do so with smiles on our face, TOGETHER....dreaming of the new life we'll share behind these four wall.

As we explore new places, new traditions, new friends we'll do so TOGETHER.....hopeful for new adventures.

The next few weeks will be difficult. I know I'll be drying my fair share of eyes, including my own.......but I won't give in to the resentment. I am thankful for new opportunities to solidify and strengthen who we are as a family. 

Goodbye Idaho

I love Idaho. We wanted to move here several years before the Army stationed us here. Oddly enough, it's hard to get people to want to get stationed in Idaho. That's because they've never been to Idaho and know nothing about it. They think rural and potatoes. While there is that, Idaho is a lot more. The people are friendly. The mountains are beautiful. There's so much to do outdoors. It's perfect, and I hope that the lack of desire on the part of others will open up the possibility of us getting stationed here again in five years.

On Sunday we drove down to City or Rocks National Preserve for camping and hiking. The kids love it there. They are always excited about climbing around on the rocks and exploring. They were really sad to say goodbye to a place that has brought them such great memories.

My youngest

This is my youngest, Hot Lips. She's four, almost five. I can't figure out where she gets this stuff. That was sarcasm. I know exactly where she gets this stuff.

And this is Scarlet. She's old and has packed on a few pounds. She got stuck in the cat door for the first time the other day. John had to pull her out. She's tried dieting. She never sticks with it. But she's happy. And really, isn't that all that matters?

Things our psychologist disagrees with

She says bad words.

It should be known that I like to cuss. Bad words are the wind in my sails, the grass at my feet, the fuel for my soul. I know a lot of good moms and they would not think highly of me and my love of such words. I'm sure they'd say this is proof of my limited vocabulary. To them I say, "You needed more proof?"

A little over a year ago we stopped at McDonald's on a road trip. We needed milk shakes. My then 12-year-old daughter had extremely limited English at that time. She was quite concerned about the trip to McDonald's. Why were these stupid Americans wanting to drink "milk shit"? Idiots!

We laugh about this regularly. Today my 4-year-old asked for a "milk shit" in public. I felt no shame. I gave her a fist bump.

I think it's hilarious when my kids say naughty words. I laugh like a 13-year-old boy every time I hear it. (Except the eff word. The eff word isn't cute.) My kids aren't the smartest kids around, but they know that cuss words are only funny if you use them on occasion and at the right time. I bet your high achieving kids don't have an appreciation that sort of comedic nuance.

Why do I really love cuss words? I think they're therapeutic. They are these syllables that you are not supposed to say. They are bad, revolting, disgusting. Society says people that use such language are classless. This is the perfect thing to share as a family...to make you a family. It's a way to safely act out in defiance of the world, within the safety of the people that love you.

I was a non-cusser after I became a mother. I spent several years as a non-cusser. I bought the non-cussing hype. Post adoption, I let it go and let the bad words fly as needed. (Mostly because I really, really needed to say some bad words.) The words hold POWER for traumatized children. I know, I know. You're thinking, "Way to rationalize you hedonistic beast." Maybe you're right. In fact, I'm sure you're right. I don't care. When I hear my 10-year-old let an "s word" fly, I die of laughter. He dies of laughter. And we bond. We become a family. "Forget the world.....forget those lame-os. We are hilarious. And we are mother and son." Can you think of anything more beautiful?

And now for something completely different

We're moving. It's somewhere far outside my comfort zone, but I'm ready for it. I love an adventure. I love learning to make a life in new places. That said, it's going to be hard to leave the Northwest. I fit here. It's where I've always known I belong. When I lived in Texas, I couldn't wait to get back here. And now I'm saying goodbye again.

No worries. I'm moving to what I have deemed "Jimmy Buffet-land". I don't like Jimmy Buffet, but I sure do like the laid back beach lifestyle he promotes and it seems like we're going to have that for at least three years. I'll look at it as an extended vacation. I'm already sad that at some point we'll have to leave. Oh well, such is life of the military family. We've got at least 2 more duty stations until retirement.

I'm starting to appreciate how significant the cultural differences are going to be. As a mother of five children, most of whom don't look like me, I appreciate that we are not your average All-American family. We currently live in an area where large families and transracial adoption aren't out of the ordinary. When we are out and about in the community we rarely get funny looks or comments. I'm realizing that's going to change soon.

Today I had to make doctor's appointments in Jimmy Buffet-land. It went like this:

Me: "I need to make new patient appointments for my kids."

Doctor's Office: "Great! How about 10:00am on the 13th?"

Me: "That's perfect. But I'll need five appointments. I assume you'll want to schedule us over two days."

Doctor's Office: "Why do you need five appointments? Do you have five kids?"

Me: "Yes."

Doctor's Office: "Oh my goodness! That's a lot of kids!"

I had a similar conversation with the school.

In Idaho, I have a small amount of children. I'm sort of a mothering weakling. I know several families with 8+ children. Five here is like the rest of the country's 2.5 children. In "Jimmy Buffet-land" I would imagine that having 5 kids, most of whom are black (and being a really pale white woman) is the equivalent of having like 12 kids here.

Yep, we're going to be stared at. And that's okay. My 9-year-old is dying to be spotted by a talent scout so this might be the opportunity he's been clamoring for.