Shout out love

To the couple who picked up the tab for our five squirmy and rambunctious children at dinner the other night:

We arrived at the restaurant with five very hungry and tired children. We had almost opted for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the hotel in preparation for our long drive home. But God had other plans. He knew we needed to be encouraged.

Last week the children and I joined my husband on one of his business trips. He flew out ahead of us, and I drove the children several states over to the state where they were born. While there, we visited with their previous foster family and then we spent a few days at museums and parks. Being in their home state triggered some varied responses in my kids. Although they intellectually know that adoption means permanency, when you've spent between 30% and 75% of your life in foster care, it takes some time for emotions to catch up to reality. 

To say that last week took its toll on me is an understatement. It may not have been as bad as our first few weeks together, but it was definitely a giant step backwards. 

So, when the waitress approached our table tonight and mentioned you, I was sure she was going to inform us that you complained about my son who was constantly peering over the divider to see what you were eating while repeatedly saying, "mommy, I'm really hungry," or my daughters who were using outside voices at an inside table while calling me a "meanie."

Instead, our waitress said that you had paid the bill for our bouncy bunch.

Thank you.

You have no idea what a blessing that was to me. 

I had some time to reflect last week while driving, and I realized that trading in a career for motherhood is essentially exchanging back-breaking work for heart-breaking work. 

This is certainly true for all mothers. But, those of us who parent children with histories of trauma often have to deal with an added layer often unknown, misunderstood, or even ignored.

You may not know how each trip to the store, each ride to the park, each day at school is a game of Russian roulette. 

Will my older children throw tantrums at the store? Will one of my kiddos scream at the top of her lungs in public? Will another one threaten to kick me in the face if she doesn't get what she wants? Will one bite the other? Can I just get through the checkout line without an argument that turns into a shoving contest complete with blood-curdling screaming? Do I correct my child and risk adding fuel to her fire? Or, do I ignore her defiance while judgmental eyes think that they would never let their child speak to them that way?

I thought I was largely past the multiple successive tantrum phase (and I don't mean by my soon-to-be 3 y/o), but this week was a reminder of how far we've come. To be honest, I am just glad that the people in our hotel who heard our chaos won't recognize me at the pharmacy. 

I read once that what many people don't realize is that, while "normal" children (and by that I mean children blessed enough to live with the parents that gave them life) have episodes of defiance and rebellious behavior, children who come from trauma have much longer lasting episodes...tantrums that last for hours, days, or even weeks; high-pitched screaming coming from kiddos waaaay past the tantrum throwing phase. Or, in our case, children who are learning boundaries that differentiate between private expression and public expression of frustration.

A few months ago, our middle child coined a phrase during her bedtime prayers. Now each night she prays that God would help us "shout out love" to those around us. I love this visual. 

"Mom," she'll say, "do you know what it means to shout out love?" 

"Tell me," I reply.

"It means to be kind to people you don't know."

To the couple who shouted out love to us last week....may you be blessed beyond measure, and may God's blessings be returned to you in "a large quantity, pressed together, shaken down, and running over." (Luke 6:38)

"I can guarantee this truth: Whatever you did for one of my brothers or sisters, no matter how unimportant they seemed, you did for me." ~Matthew 25:40

"Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it." ~Hebrews 13:2

Other mothers....

My other mom.

It's a phrase we hear often in our home. "My other mom bought me that" or "my other mom used to [fill in the blank]." One Friday as we were walking from the zoo to the parking lot, one of my girls nonchalantly said to me, "I have lots of moms."

Lots of moms.

Oh sure, many children might say the same thing about their best friend's mom or a special woman from church who mothered them. I know many families who refer to special friends as their "adopted sister" or "adopted son."

But, my kids mean it. I am at least their fourth mother.

Four moms.

Can you imagine? For my second youngest, that means he has been in more homes than he is years old. He has missed out on crucial bonding experiences that can only be restored by God's grace.

The other day we were listening to the Frozen soundtrack. At one point, my 5 y/o tells me that "this is the part where her parents die on the boat, but that's ok because she can get a new mom and dad, right?"

That makes sense, though, through the eyes of my children. When one mom is gone, another becomes available. Normal, right? For them, yes.

We talk a lot about family in our home.  Our children don't all come from healthy families, so they often simply don't know what a healthy family looks like. We find that we are regularly having to define family to them. ("Families walk together at the zoo." "Families have good days and bad days." "Families help and support each other.") My kids know that I while I am not their first mother, I am their last. But knowing and deeply understanding aren't always the same. I am frequently reminded that it takes thousands of positive experiences to counterbalance only a few negative ones.

A few weeks ago, we had a wind storm that knocked a big oak tree into our house, causing damage to our roof and attic structure. Oddly enough, on the outside the tree looked quite healthy. There were no bare limbs and the leaves were full and green. But, there had been some rotting due to insects and animals, and that was precisely where the trunk broke. What's outside isn't always what's inside. That's why God looks at our hearts.

On the outside, my children are beautiful and look normal, but on the inside, there is so much unseen hurt. This hurt permeates our days and turns even the most benign occurrences into triggers. Not getting a glass of water before bedtime can result in a 45 minute tantrum. Choosing the wrong park for a morning play time can inspire a screaming fit coupled with hitting or biting. But underneath it all is hurt - pain too deep for words. And, this is where things sometimes breakdown. It is also why we sometimes rock our oldest at nighttime or spoon-feed our almost 4-year-old. Emotional ages in our family do not mirror chronological ones.

One of my girls will frequently tell me she likes me. She has not yet told me she loves me, although she often says she is glad to be in our home. In a way, I admire her honesty. She isn't ready to love me, and that's ok, because every other adult that she has loved is no longer around. But, she also isn't ready to say it just to score points with me. I give her credit for that.

The other day at my parents' home, my son looked at my mother and said, "Mommy belongs in our family." So profound for him. Here is an almost 4-year-old whose vocabulary consisted mostly of parroting words back to us just five months ago. He struggles with sorting items such as shapes or colors. And yet, somewhere deep inside, our gracious God is beginning to heal his heart. Not only was our son able to initiate such a thought, he was able to understand what it meant to belong.

"And I will restore or replace for you the years that the locust has eaten...." 

(Joel 2:25a)

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Milestones, messages, and miracles...

It's been one week since our children came home with us.

Life is a journey marked by milestones, often of the most unexpected kind. Six months is a big one in NJ adoption, because after six months the court can finalize our adoption, sealing it forever. I also remember when my baby was around 10 months old that it suddenly struck me that she had been with me longer than she had been with her birth mom.

Today marks one week of being a family of seven. One week means we've made it through the varying schedules of each day at least once. For me, that's a tiny milestone.

Lots of words have been making their rounds in our home this week. Words ranging from "this is the best family ever" to "you make me mad" to other nastiness I'll not print. Some of it is normal childhood interaction (that my sister and I NEVER experienced, I'm sure, right mom?). Much of it is trauma based.

We have one who likes to scream at the top of her lungs when angry, another who spits (and got me squarely in the face this morning), and still another who pinches, hits, pushes, etc. This sometimes even all happens at once! My sweet oldest seems to be the punching bag, and she is struggling to learn that I am the mom; she doesn't need to be. My precious baby pickle has decided that slapping, pushing, and screaming at the others is the way to solve her frustration at the intrusion.

But, amidst all the chaos, mean words, bad attitudes, and messy mealtimes, one conversation has haunted me since hearing it.

Last week, I took two of my girls grocery shopping, and on the way home one said to me, "mamma?" I replied. She continued, "I called you 'mamma.' Whenever I get a new mom, I call her 'mamma.'"

Whenever I get a new mom..... 

Tonight at the counselor's office, another one of my kids said that we were going to keep them for a few years. Another asks every time we go out, "can we go back to your house?"

It's only been a week. It will take time to overcome years of ingrained experiences.

But, woven throughout this past week have been some good moments.

Despite the meltdowns, interrupted sleeping patterns, sickness, tantrums, and fighting, we managed to start homeschooling (even learning a few Latin words!). I also discovered the my kids really like cleaning house (not cleaning up toys or rooms, of course, but I'll take it). Our downstairs windows are sparkling, and our bathrooms are shining! My 5 y/o insists that she should do all the vacuuming. They really seem to love working together, and they take pride in a job well done. Even the 3 y/o wants to dust and little A loves (and I means loves) to empty the bathroom trash. So much so, that she'll often throw something away in there just so she can empty the can into the kitchen.

We also have had the joy of routinely talking to our kids about Jesus as they have asked good and insightful questions. Tonight as we were driving, I commented that we should pray for daddy as he went to a board meeting where the men have the important work of making big decisions for our church. One of my girls asked if we could pray right then. If only we adults would ask the same question when raising a prayer request.

So often, it is tempting go into these sorts of situations thinking about all of the things we may teach our children, when in reality, God is gracious enough to use them to teach us along the way. Today, when my little one spit in my face, I was so angry I had to walk away and let my husband discipline. A few moments later as I was loading the dishwasher and chewing on my insulted pride, I was struck with remembrance that my Lord was spat upon.

God specializes in tearing down our idols and cleaning our hidden ugliness. 

I can handle screaming, hitting, fighting, tantrums, etc. But spitting insults me. Because somehow, the dirty truth is that my pride wants it all about me.

And yet, as I realized that the God of the universe endured spitting and oh so much more, my eyes filled with tears. Because suddenly, I was on the other side of the equation - no longer the victim, I was the offender.

Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus.

Vast. Unmeasured. Boundless.

Free!

(S. Trevor Fracis, 1875)

Fear of man, no more

The other night, Peter and I met with a prospective adoption therapist. During our time together, she said something to me that was so very freeing.

She told me that adoptive moms are the most "looked-down-on" kinds of moms. 

How scary! And, yet for me, it was freeing. It was as if I felt the chains falling off of me.

I grew up with a wonderful family in a relatively small community. Most people knew my dad and/or mom, and my last name was familiar. It was not uncommon for me to introduce myself only to be told "your dad took care of my mother when she was ill," or some such thing. I was raised to remember that my actions reflected my family. I believe that was a good thing, especially because as an adult, I recognize the parallel: if I carry the name Christian, my actions reflect the God I serve, albeit imperfectly.

Whether rightly or wrongly, people do get a picture of Christ by what His followers do and say.

But, somewhere along the line, I began to care what others thought, and that's not good. Even though I know what is True, I still struggle with people's perception of me on occasion today.

And, I'm being honest here....

When I know I'm in the right, I can handle when people attack me or try to shame or manipulate me. Generally, in those situations, criticism stings for a moment, but then it rolls off my back.

But, when I am uncertain about a decision or an action, I will be often be concerned with what people say or think. I know this is a trap (Proverbs 29:25), so I resist the temptation, but if I'm honest, it can be a battle.

One of my concerns in going forward with this adoption has been the judgement that I know will come from others. I have been amazed over the past two years with not only how opinionated people have been since I became a mom (is it me, moms? or does everyone seem to have an opinion on how I should raise my kid?), but also at how much liberty even strangers take in asking personal questions about my transracial child.

Just. Wow.

Most of the time, though, I try to take questions as an opportunity to educate on adoption, but sometimes I just want to shake my head and ask 'really?' (Well, honestly, sometimes I want to do more than that...)

Through NO fault of their own, our children have and will have issues that differ from what children raised by biological parents face. Some of these are visible now, and some we may uncover later. Much of our parenting is the same, and much of it is different. We still deal with toddler tantrums and little girl drama, boo-boos and bedtime charades.

But, when my little ones don't want to be left in a nursery or in Sunday School, it is not because they are experiencing age-appropriate anxiety; it is because they are not sure that I will ever come back. It is because that has been their experience.

When my ten-year-old someday throws a temper tantrum in the middle of the mall, it is not because we don't set appropriate boundaries at home or because she is spoiled; it is because her body may be ten-years-old, but her emotions are still three-years-old. Or, when my six-year-old is afraid to go over a friend's house for the afternoon, it is not because he is sheltered; it is because he has seen too much.

Children who have experienced trauma (and that's just about every child in foster care) are stuck in a fight or flight pattern. You and I have that adrenaline rush when faced with a danger (think being approached by a scary animal). Our bodies see the danger and make a choice to fight it or to flee it.

Children who have been exposed to the various unsafe and abusive conditions that warranted their removal from their natural parents are often in a constant state of fight or flight (or freeze). Their little brains and bodies often don't know how to relax and feel safe. A kiddo in this situation may see dinner being prepared, but may still worry about not having enough food. This is why it is not uncommon for children with these experiences to hoard food. Healing is possible, but it takes time. We've been told that for every one year in foster care, children need at least one year in a stable home in order to overcome.

Believe me, this is a learning experience for us. We have to rethink our parenting style. It isn't going to be easy, and people may think we are too permissive, or too strict, or just plain crazy. And, maybe we are. Or, perhaps there is more to what most people can see. Maybe, my husband and I are privy to information not known by others, and just maybe, we are doing something right.

So, if you happen to see us when one of my kids is having a meltdown over the wrong kind of pizza (and it's happened), please don't tell me how you handled it with your kids, because that just may not work with mine. Mine might need me to order a different kind of pizza so she can begin to understand that moms make sure their kids have food. Or if one of my children uses an inappropriate word or doesn't yet know how to tie her shoes, please refrain from passing judgement. Maybe I need to keep tying them for awhile so she learns that moms help care for their kids.

And, if you just can't help but judge me, know that I forgive you. I once judged moms, too, before I understood.

Instead, please offer a prayer on our behalf. That will help more us than you may ever know.

We have a date

In both our adoption experiences, we have had moments that mark our journeys...moments that stand out as memorable. There are the obvious ones--the first time we held the little pickle, our first night as parents, meeting birth mom, getting "the call." Then, there are the less anticipated ones--meeting our social worker[s], mailing in a completed home study packet, choosing an agency, submitting on and interviewing for specific children...the list goes on.

Saturday was one of those moments that fell somewhere between the obvious and the surprising. We called our kids to give them the actual date that they would come home with us. It was a nice thing to be able to do on Valentine's Day. The children were cautiously optimistic.

They've been disappointed before.

Foster mom said they had begun asking her questions about the summer unsure of when they'd finally be clear to come, so she was grateful we could give them a countdown. She felt their excitement had diminished a bit with all the waiting they've been doing.

I can't blame them.

When we went into this match, we did so knowing that it was a legal risk placement. Usually, that means either that the natural parents' rights have not been terminated, or in our case, that an appeal to the termination had been filed. In part, this is what held up the transition from the sending state to ours. Our kids don't know that part...

Some good has come out of all this waiting, though. We heard just over a week ago that the judge (who had given himself an extension at the end of December) had ruled that the state had met the standard for rehabilitation services and that the termination of parental rights was upheld.

I received this ruling with mixed emotions. Anyone who has read the background on my children would wonder what took so long for the state to intervene. It would be so easy to hate their first parents. And yet, I can't bring myself to do so. Somewhere along the line, they were hurt, too, and unless someone stops the cycle, hurt begets hurt, abuse begets abuse, and sin begets sin. My kids' natural parents are paying dearly for theirs.

Make no mistake - I justify no behavior that harms children--physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

Yet, bad parenting perpetuates bad parenting unless something or someone stops it. The judge made the right decision. It is past time for my children to have the promise of permanency.

In addition to being able to put to rest the legal risk in our minds and hearts, we have been able to construct the wall needed to add a fourth bedroom upstairs, and we have [mostly] been able to organize our home. Peter and I will be homeschooling, and I have been excited to open the boxes of school books as they arrive.

Tomorrow, we meet with our social worker to go over behavior awareness tools, and Thursday, we have a consultation with an adoption counselor. Things are coming together.

We are buckling in and bracing for the ride of our lives. I'm not sure how we would have come this far without the amazing support of both our natural family and our church family. We owe them many thanks.

Thanks also to my readers for "virtually" joining our journey. Please continue to pray for us! The hard  (yet rewarding) part is yet to come.

Amazing Love

I don't believe in love at first sight.

Sure, when I met Peter I thought that I might like him, but I don't think I really began to understand what loving him meant until after we married and I watched him go to work tired in order to provide for me. Or even more so when I saw him get up during the night to change our infant daughter or watch him forego some much needed downtime so that I could have some instead. It's fair to say that the more I learn about Peter, the more I love him.

So it is with our children.

The first time I met A, she was two days old. I was drawn to her, and I cared about her. I even thought I might love her, but I really didn't even know her. I didn't have nine months of her growing inside me or even two or three months of getting to know her through a match with a birthmother. I met A about 18 hours after I found out she even existed. I had to learn to love her. The feelings followed the choice.

This time, I am much better prepared and have no notions of falling in love with cute faces. It's a good thing, too. It is hard enough for me to feel any love towards people I already know when I'm exhausted, and exhaustion doesn't even begin to describe what we experienced during both times our children visited us over Thanksgiving and Christmas. It certainly wasn't the normal exhaustion of parenting five children (with the holidays mixed in). I can adjust to that.

No, this bone-deep weariness was the result of parenting five children, four of whom come to us from a place of great hurt. Emotional ages don't match chronological ones.

Adoption = trauma. No matter how you slice it.

Even my little A--who came to us at birth from a very loving first mom who still rejoices with me over the many milestones--she was taken from the familiar and thrust into the unfamiliar.

I am not my new children's first mom, or even their second.

Or third.

When they call me mom, it isn't because we are bonding. It is because they don't attach the same meaning to the word that you and I do. They will have to learn what a mom is.

There is loss. And grief. And a great need for grace.

At one point, one of my kiddos had a rebellious encounter with poop. She smelled. She was full of angry tears and wanted me to hold her. Needless to say, I don't like the smell of poop. In fact, it turns my stomach (I still hold my breath while changing diapers). I had to summon every ounce of strength I had to snuggle with a stinky, defiant, disobedient, (did I mention smelly?) kid. Oh how I really wanted to run into a shower.

And then it occurred to me. That was me. That is all of us in our sin. We stink. We are repulsive. We are messy and ugly.

Yet God, in His great love for us, lowered Himself to come to us in the midst of our defiant stench because He saw something redeemable in us. He hugged me when I was covered in poop.

And so, I wrestle again with love, as our children prepare to join us within the next several weeks.

But this time, while I know I may not feel love or even want to express it, I must choose to give it.

Because I have received it.

Alas! and did my Savior bleed
And did my Sovereign die?
Would He devote that sacred head
For such a worm as I?

Was it for crimes that I had done
He groaned upon the tree?
Amazing pity! grace unknown!
And love beyond degree!

(Isaac Watts; Hymns and Spiritual Songs, 1707-09, Book II, number 9)