Posted in Adoption, RAD, Trauma, Uncategorized

What about the Honeymoon

“Okay, it’s time to go to bed. The movie is over and we have to take you back in the morning.”

It was a month after visits driving back and forth ninety miles each way that we finally got to have her stay a weekend with us. We had from Friday to Sunday to spend as much time as we could with our beautiful daughter. We chose to keep it low-key and stay home, play games, watch movies, and go for bike rides. It was a great weekend.IMG_0713 We felt like a family. I knew the emotions were beginning to get overwhelming the closer we got to bedtime. She had mentioned many times that weekend that she was ready to just stay with us. I had told my husband privately how I was ready for her to just stay with us. I knew it was going to be hard to drive her back and leave her there for another week.
It was Saturday night and we had just finished a movie when I said to her “Okay, it’s time to go to bed. The movie is over and we have to take you back in the morning.” It was a matter of fact sentence, one similar to something every parent has said to their kids at some point. It was the last straw of her being able to hold back what she had been trying so hard to hide for the last several weeks. In that sentence the battle lines were drawn and only she could see them.

“I don’t wanna go to bed, I wanna watch another movie.” was her reply.

“Well, that isn’t going to happen, it is bed time.” I replied back

“I wanna play another game then.” The demanding voice was hard not to hear.

“Honey, it is bedtime. we have a long day tomorrow and we need our rest.” I was pulling from the training, I knew this was a test. I was ready to pass it. I had been prepared for this and I knew it was important to do this right. I did not think it would blow up too badly, after all we were in the “honeymoon” phase.

Every adoptive family has talked about the ” honeymoon” phase. It is a time when all the kiddos placed into forever homes try desperately to make their families see them as adorable little creatures. The length of every honeymoon varies. Much like a honeymoon you may have taken when you were married the length of it depends on how much money you have, time off of work, and where you go. Well, our kids honeymoons depend on how much hurt is built up, how many times they have been promised this is their forever family, and how capable they are to hide the fear of being let down one more time. Our hurt little girl wasted no time to begin the testing of our promise. We were her fourth family that had promised to adopt her. She was in three different foster homes  in between. There was a lot of hurt to test out on us. That was the first night we had a rage, but definitely not the last. She screamed at us that we couldn’t make her go to sleep and stomped up the stairs. My son looked at us bewildered, saw the looks my husband and I were giving, and curled up on the couch next to my husband.

“I got this, I don’t think it will last that long.” I naively said as I walked up to her room. I couldn’t calm her. She was wild with anger and rage. Her window was open and so I walked over to close it which only angered her more. “Well, if you need to scream I don’t want you annoying the neighbors” I said as if she wasn’t remotely bothering me. I closed the door behind me and was so glad I wasn’t in the same room when the pitch of her scream went ten octaves higher as she threatened “You’re going to think annoying when I SCREAM ALL NIGHT LONG!” Oh it was on. The sarcastic, competitive, control freak woke up right there. I opened the door and asked her one more time to go to sleep, her eyes were locked on me with a smirk like that I’ve only seen in movies, and started to scream “You can’t make me, I am going to stay up all night screaming!” I don’t know where it came from, but I looked at her and smirked right back and yelled down to my husband, “Honey, can you put a pot of coffee on, looks like we are in for a long night!” I still cherish the look of confusion that crossed her face. It did the trick, I had changed the rules of engagement that night. She had to rethink how to win this war, she needed to see how to hurt me before she could win. She gave in, until the next time. I closed the door and stood there thinking to myself that I had this it was going to be as easy as baking a cake to help her heal and trust us. Little did I know she was on the other side of the door telling herself that she had this, it was going to be as easy as it had always been to flip this house upside down and bring us to our knees.

That wasn’t the last rage we would see, that wasn’t the last of threats to make us lose our minds, she wasn’t done demanding control of our home. No, we would see what real rage was in the months and years to come. We would be tested on our promise every day. We had not even scratched the surface of her behaviors and we had not even a clue as to what was waiting for us on the other side of the mask she wore. I would soon disappear from society, lose many friendships, lose myself, and lose the calm of our home. No amount of training can prepare you for that, and so I write………………

Posted in Adoption, Trauma, Uncategorized

Though she be but little she is fierce

Lil Lil is tiny.

No, like really tiny.

She was just referred to a specialist to see what might be causing her to NOT grow.

I can tell you why, she made a deal with the Fairy Queen! All her teeth (loose or not) to stay tiny and adorable forever. I know its true, the real reason is too hard for me to think about.

My Lil Lil, sweet, adorable, tiny, sparkling Lil Lil. You see her and melt and she knows it. Her smile is like breath to those that are hurting. Her tiny voice is dripping with sugar and sprinkled in glitter. DSCF9338Her big brown eyes grab a hold of your heart and you will do anything she asks. Her tiny hands reach for you and you are filled with joy that she wants you to hold them. Oh how easy it is for her to find favor in any room she walks into. Oh how she takes that favor and twists it into a crazy ball of chaos. Lil Lil is the youngest of five, she was born to a woman who needed drugs during her pregnancies. Thus the real reason Lil Lil is so tiny, her birth person caused it. When she was a little over a year old she was rescued from her birth home and went into foster care. The couple whose home she and two siblings were placed into treated her like their own little china doll. She was held 24/7, allowed to act and do whatever she wished, “too cute to say no to”, and was treated like she was favored above the rest until she was three years old. Now, at 7, she cannot understand why she can’t stab the dog and not have us tell her how adorable it is. She refuses to admit she can read, acts like 1+1 still baffles her, she will walk up to a perfect stranger, hold her arms up, and say “up” in her best baby voice. Lil Lil wishes to be a baby still. DSCF9804Looking at her standing near her siblings you would think she was still a baby. You wouldn’t think that she is an extremely smart little girl about to go into the second grade. Looking at her little size 4T body you wouldn’t think that she is old enough to plan out her next diabolical attack on her big brother. Looking at her toothless smile you wouldn’t think she pulled three teeth out that weren’t loose because of the sticker she got for the loose one. No, you would think she is the cutest little thing you’ve ever seen, and you would be right she is adorable. Disney channel worthy. GAP model like. She is a cutie I cannot deny it. She is also a hurting little girl who uses her tiny to hide it.

We have come a long way these last three years. My little trauma baby has grown emotionally even if not physically. Her three-letter diagnoses has rotated a few times but the underlying issue has remained the same. Trauma, it all comes down to that. The biting has stopped, she rarely pulls her hair out anymore, and she hasn’t stood in one spot repeating herself over and over for forty-five minutes in a very long time. However, she still will choose negative behavior over positive, she cannot stand to have anyone else receive ANY attention over her, she struggles with doing what she is asked (even if she wants to do it), and she cries when you tell her she isn’t a baby anymore. Her fairy mind control could make Luke Skywalker come over to the dark side and she is a master at pushing all our buttons at just the right time. She knows when to strike in public to make those around her ooo and aahh over her adorable little size. She is excited when those strangers look at us like we are crazy when we ask them to not pick her up or encourage her baby-like behaviors. Oh the joy she feels when she can get her big brother to look like a big ole meanie in front of all the little 8th grade girls she has suckered into carrying her around. DSCF0442Yet even he is not immune to her powers of cuteness. We all fall under her spell from time to time. As I watched her running around at the town concert last night I was brought out of the world of trauma for just a moment. I saw her laughing and playing with kids her age and they weren’t carrying her like a doll. Then it hit me, the day is coming that she will no longer need to feel like a baby to feel loved and important. The day is nearing that she will be comfortable with growing up. I can see the light at the end of this tunnel. I will win the battle with the fairy queen. My genius minion will figure out growing up isn’t the worst thing in the world, she is starting to let go and so I write……

Posted in Adoption, RAD, Trauma, Uncategorized

Walking the tightrope of reality

I can remember a time when trust came easy. I could walk into a room of people without the overwhelming feeling that everyone was hiding something. I once was able to listen to the stories being shared without looking at the body language of the one sharing it. I once looked into a persons eyes to show interest and respect and not to see if they could look back at me comfortably. I had a calm about me, a fun and trusting spirit, at least I think I did. I have lost touch with that reality.

There are many things that have to change once you adopt, even more when you adopt trauma babies. The frequency of eating at restaurants, going out with friends, dates with your spouse, less time on your calendar for spa days, and the list goes on. These things are a no brainer, easy to sacrifice for the healing of a child. You are willing to add to your already chaotic schedule for the therapist visits, doctor  appointments, case worker calls, IEP meetings, teachers emails, and wait lists for the specialists that you pray will be the one to offer the missing link to healing. Once your son or daughter20151024_074107 is in your home you would move mountains to help in that healing, no questions asked. You have read the reports. You know you are in for a crazy ride. You’ve buckled up and surrounded yourself with all the safety measures you can prepare for. You know who you are and how perfect your home is for the healing of your children. You can see yourself as a complete family. The smiles on their little faces as you tuck them into bed, you can even see the tears streaming down their faces as you gently hand out the consequence that matches the behaviors they are struggling with at the moment. You have read the books, watched the DVD’s, and taken the classes. You’ve got this.

I had this.

I was strong, calm, educated, ready. I trusted the path I was on.

I trusted.

Somewhere along the path I fell into the sea of lies that comes with trauma and it is a deep-sea. I started on the shores and could see for miles. I knew when a storm was coming and was able to prepare or seek shelter. Then one day I blinked and found myself on a ship rocking back and forth in the waves of  make-believe stories. Wave after wave crashing onto the deck makes it hard to not slip and fall overboard and suddenly you are fighting to keep your head above water. Suddenly you can’t trust yourself to pick out your clothes for the day, you can’t believe you ever thought that paint color was a good choice, and you can see the cat hanging by its tail in her tiny little hands but you just can’t comprehend that she can be that diabolical! The veil between truth and lies is a thin one and once torn the repair of it takes longer than your nerves can handle. My days are filled with “I didn’t do it” followed by the “I don’t know” and completely overwhelmed with the “I’m telling the truth”. It starts as soon as their eyes open and doesn’t stop until they close. It is day  after day and with everyday I get more determined to see them heal. I see through the lies to the fear. I know that in their minds an untruth is the only thing that stands between them and safety. Even after this many years of make believe I can still see through the frustration of being told the lies. I can still see their smiles as I tuck them in and I am still willing to move the mountains that are in the way of their healing. One day her smile will be genuine, soon he won’t stare into space trying to come up with a believable story to tell, I know she will one day be able to admit her failure without blaming everyone around her. They will all be able to someday trust that I love them no matter what. I know this.

Until that day comes I will continue on the path filled with eggshells. I will try to balance on the tightrope of reality. Please don’t push me off, if my hair is a mess don’t tell me I am looking good. I still have mirrors that haven’t been broken. I can see the bags under my eyes, I know I  have had one too many cheeseburgers in between sessions. I realize there is a coffee stain down the front of my shirt and I can feel myself watching for your untruth. Be a safe place, a calm between the storms. Please don’t offer advice that will cause me to be unbalanced as I walk this rope, trust that it is still me, the fun, loving, and trusting girl you have always known. It is still me I am just a different me. I have just lost touch with that reality right now.

I have lost my ability to walk into a room and trust those in it but I  haven’t lost sight of why I said yes knowing my world would flip upside down, and so I write……….

 

Posted in Adoption, daughter, Mother, RAD, Trauma, Uncategorized

The sins of the mother

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…………….

 

Posted in Adoption, RAD, Trauma, Uncategorized

First blog post

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!)

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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!” IMG_0014Her 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…………