RAD – Page 2 – soshewritesweb

A storm is brewing.

It’s on the horizon and has been building up for the last month.

It is a storm few will experience and it is a storm that those few will be unable to find shelter from.

Mothers Day. A day that the many will find joy and laughter in and the few will find hate and screams in. I am one of the few, the few who have taken a vow to care for the kids whose birth-persons hurt. I call her birth person because I can’t call her mother. I can’t hold my hurting children and then refer to the woman who hurt them as “mother”.

It is Friday and I am preparing my home for the impending storm. Like I said, it has been brewing for a month. It started its build up at school. The teachers have had talks of Mothers Day coming up, the art has been started, the family trees have been created, and the excitement of all the children is growing. Well, most of the children. My kids can’t tell you their family tree, they can’t bring in the baby pictures to show, and their distrust in mothers is still too strong to share in the excitement of the others. Their teachers can’t see that though, they participate with false excitement, with masks of joy and it only adds to the strength of the storm. As I sit here in the calm before the storm I prepare myself for the days that will lead up to the day I will pay for the sins of the mother. Today, my little ones will finish the art project they have been working on with big smiles and it will somehow end up broken before it finds its way into my hands, it always does. The poem that has been written with love in the eyes of their teachers will have passive aggressive undertones that only I will be able to see. The act of a sweet little girl has been kept up for far too long and the scared and hurt emotions will soon erupt. DSCF0846

They know how to hide it to the world around them. They know how to smile through the pain. There isn’t a person in the world that can see through the mask, well other than me. That is because I am the one that is privileged to see them without the mask. I am the mother, the one that represents the person that began the hurt. It started in the womb, their trauma. The protector of their little lives began hurting them while they grew. They each were born into homes that were not safe, the smells of dinner on the stove was replaced with smells of smoke and rumbling tummies. Clean sheets and a bedtime story was replaced with stained mattresses and screams in the hallways. Before they took a breath of air they learned that mothers can hurt you, after their first cry they felt that mothers can hurt you, after they were taken from the pits of hell they discovered the pain of loving and losing a mother. Now I am the mom. I fill the house with aromas of warm dinners, they sleep sweetly in a soft warm bed, I spend hours planning and driving to and from meetings that will help them heal, and I am the one that gets all the brunt of that anger and hurt.

I can handle it.

Most days I can handle it.

I deal with it.

Most days I deal with it.

Sometimes it hurts. Most days it hurts. It always hurts.

I know their trauma. I have read the reports but more than that I have looked into their eyes during the rages. I see the fear every time they get comfortable in my arms. I get pushed away each time there is a connection. They are reminded of the hurt from day one and I pay for the sins of the mother that wasn’t a safe one. Holiday’s are the worst, Mothers Day is set aside for the person that hurt them first. It is one of the hardest for them. They feel pulled in two different ways. Anger towards the one that hurt them and love towards the one that chose them. Both carry the title of mother. Only one carries the weight of their pain. Only one is there during the rages, nightmares, fears, and tears. Only one stays safe enough to empty themselves of the pain on.

Yes, a storm is brewing. The masks need only be worn one more day. The glitter, glue, and markers will all be put away and the eruptions will come and so I write…………….

My life was once normal. I mean, what I thought was normal.

My husband loved me relentlessly, adored me even. He put up with my quirks, my moody days, my migraines, and my hangry days! What more could a girl ask for?

My son was as close to perfection a child can get without hitting that annoying place. Come on, let’s be real here, perfect children are down right annoying. (Mainly due to their moms pointing out their perfect behaviors every five seconds!)

We had a quiet life, a calm life. We enjoyed our beautiful Colorado playground as often as we wished, and could just sit in the same room enjoying the presence of each other. A picture perfect family. But alas, something was missing.

At three our little guy began to speak of his little sister to all the nursery workers. That was fun, as he was apparently the only one that knew about her. I had to explain to his little self that mommy wasn’t having a baby sister and he couldn’t just tell people she was! Like most stubborn little three-year old boys, he wouldn’t drop it and continued to ask when his sister was going to come home. This was not the easiest time, because it was around this time I began to question if we would ever be bringing another little one home period. Turns out, we indeed would not bring home a baby sister or brother for the next eight years.

In those eight years of trying, giving up, trying again, questioning all those that easily had multiple children, being glad we only had one child, longing for more children, and so on and so forth, we began to discuss all the options of growing our little family. My husband came from a family background of Foster Care, and it was his dream to be able to do the same. Me, I knew my limits. Do you remember the way I described my moody, quirky, migraine blessed, hangry self? Yeah, I was sure there was no way I would have the patience to foster. Then, at a conference for youth, I heard a sermon about a woman who hid two of Gods spies, how she put her own comfort, safety, and future aside to help the children of God and in doing so became a changing point in the history of those children. “Ok God, I hear ya!” We began our journey to adoption that very summer.
In 2012, we found our sons baby sister, she was eight years old when we found her. When he saw her picture, he began to cry and exclaimed “You found her! That is my sister!” Her adoption was finalized in 2013, and two weeks later our youngest son and daughter were placed in our home.

Our life is no longer calm and quiet. It is hard on most days to be able to get out and enjoy our Colorado playground. We cannot all sit in the same room and just enjoy the presence of each other. The only picture I can think of that would describe us on most days is ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch! It is chaos, it is crazy, it is intense, it is loud, and it is far from normal. I mean, what I thought was normal.

So, I write…………