Mending? Maybe.
I started a blog because people would always ask "Do you have a blog?" so I finally made one. I had a hard time 'defining' it. I wanted it to reflect the fact that I parent, I parent alone, I parent many children (birth and adopted), and I parent on the road as often as I can. I also now homeschool, or unschool, or road school, a few of my children. I generally like to blog happiness. Good times. Silly times. Maybe even tough times with a positive spin. I try to keep my 'story' somewhat private. When I'm down or struggling, I keep it to myself and my closest friends. I know it'll pass. I know I'll get through it. I have complete faith. I trust that things happen for a reason and I'll get through them. I always have. However, there is this one topic regarding children (mine, yours, or any children) I just can't resolve within myself and feel the need to share it with someone. Anyone. The shoulder I would lean on is unavailable to me at this time and I need to unload this heartache. If you have a free shoulder, feel free to offer it up. I'm not too proud to take you up on the offer. I know others of you out there struggle with similar issues. That helps keep me sane.
My youngest birth child still lives at home. He just turned 20 and recently completed culinary arts training and is excited about finding a job in that field. I have 6, soon to be 7 (actually, tentatively soon to be 9) adopted children still at home. The process I went through to get approved to adopt then find 'my' children was pretty daunting. It felt like it took a long time but, looking back, it went pretty quickly. I adopted 6 children in less than 4 years. Has it only been 4 years? When I 'found' my children, I knew instantly in my heart they were mine from day one. They all were considered 'hard to place' kids. They came from hard places and/or have disabilities they struggle with. Usually, they do very well and I feel like a supermom. I feel good about myself and about who they are. I'm proud of them. I admire their strength, courage, and persistance. I consider myself blessed to have been chosen to be their mom. I am thankful daily that God has trusted me to raise these children. They are my life.
There are times, however, when I feel their pain, their loneliness, their loss, their broken hearts. My heart aches with theirs. I see babies in public being held by their parents, consoled, cared for, loved, guided and I immediately think to myself 'most of my children didn't have that' and I feel so sad. It also reminds me of the opportunities I never had holding, rocking, consoling, and loving my children when they were younger. Some had the complete opposite of that, actually. Most lived in foster homes. Some lived in many foster homes and some even lived in specialized programs because they couldn't manage themselves well enough to live in a foster home. Some bounced from home to home or program to program, struggling to find their place. To find a way to fit in. To find love and acceptance, even from themselves.
Living in foster care stinks. I know some awesome foster parents. I've met some really caring, exceptional workers. I still find that growing up in foster care, even with the best it has to offer, just stinks. The system functions in such a way that it just drives a person crazy. Adults and children alike. That's the nature of the beast. Necessary or not, it stinks. My adopted children have lost people in their lives. People they loved. Through no fault of their own, they have suffered loss and grieve it. They feel abandoned. Unloved. Unlovable. No matter how much I tell them I love them, rock them, hold them. No matter how many times I tell them how wonderful they are, they have a hard time seeing it. Feeling it. As I was trying to convince one that he is a good boy, worthy of love, he said, "Well, you are one of about four people out of the 600 people I've known in my life who has ever said that to me, so it's pretty hard to believe."
Many of my children, birthed and adopted, struggle with disabilities of some sort. My children each struggle with at least 2 of the following: autistic spectrum disorders, mood disorders, personality disorders, ADHD, ODD, psychotic features, developmental delays, fetal alcohol/drug exposure, and attachment issues. I see how sociaty views my children. I see how my children are treated by others who don't know or don't understand. I watch strangers crinkle their noses up at my children and walk away. Their own (former) day care worker said to me, "I can understand adopting, and it's great and all, but children like these ... ????" "Children like these." Yup, that's what she said. I wondered what she sees when she looks at my children. My own birth family wants nothing to do with me and "those children". When asked if I intended to adopt again I answered with an emphatic "yes." "Tsk tsk" was the response. I've been asked by several people, "Why can't you just be happy with the ones you already have?" Hey, I am, that's why I want more. When people ask me, "why?" ... Why do I adopt ... I just feel like saying , "Why not?" I see how people look at me, as if to say, "Are you crazy?" Or they just say I'm a saint (then probably turn and say "or crazy"). Ha. A saint? No. I'm a mom. A devoted mom. A mom who loves the children God blessed her with with all her heart but I'll never get "Mother-of-the-Year" award. I make my fair share of mistakes. Every time I see that commercial recruiting foster parents ... "You don't have to be a perfect person to be a perfect parent" I think to myself "Thank God!" And thank God my children are forgiving. But, if I see the negative reactions of people in public every day, I know my children see it, too. Every day, each incident adds to their already broken heart.
I watch as the world passes my children by. I see it through their eyes these days. It looks much different now. People talk much too fast for them. People move too fast for them. Church sermons are spoken too fast. Songs are sung too fast. Stories are read/told too quickly and with big words they just don't understand. Words. OMG, don't get me started with words. It took months to differentiate between a napkin, paper towel, and tissue. Between a hood, hoodie, jacket, coat and sweater. Seriously. Why does it matter, you ask? Well, when your hands are greasy from fixing the bike and you quickly ask for a paper towel but you're brought a napkin, it just doesn't quite do the job. When your child is asked to remove his hood in school, and he starts quickly, nervously, taking off his zippered hoodie so as not to get in trouble at school (yet again) and cuts his neck with the zipper, you can see how simply removing the hood from his head would've been so much simpler yet he just didn't understand the words. When the HW says to "label the organelles" and the child draws a line to each diagram and writes "organelle" instead of writing "nucleus, ribosome, chloroplast, etc", you can see the problem with it. Every situation causes stress and anxiety for my children. Everyone is constantly annoyed with said child. Just their perception? Maybe. Perhaps nudged along by the glares, comments and criticisms of countless people in their lives.
So, what's a mother to do? I educate my children, of course. I supplement their education as often as I can. I also try to educate people along the way. Sometimes I get tired of it. Sometimes I get snippy with the strangers who don't know how to treat my children. Strangers who try to help them put their coats on because it takes them a little longer to do it, even though Mom is standing right there. Strangers who ask me if they can help my children do a simple daily task because my children take longer to do it. Teachers who call my children lazy and uncaring because they can't stay focused and are forgetful. Other parents who tell their children, "Oh, honey, I don't think they understand what you're saying" because my child didn't answer their child in the amount of time they'd expect an answer. A doctor and a teacher each told me that one of my boys is the "most involved" kid they've ever met. Really? Involved? He is my easiest child to parent! So pleasant. So funny. So smart, if you wait long enough to hear what he has to say. God give me patience to deal with these strangers. They must truly think I'm the meanest parent in the world for making my poor children do things for themselves.
Sometimes, my best just isn't good enough. Strangers always tell me what good children I have. What a good job I'm doing. My kids say I'm 'the best Mommy ever'. Yet, I can't fix everything. I can't make their fingers zip their coats or tie their shoes. I can't slow the world down to a pace they can keep up with. I can't take away their painful memories. I can't mend their broken hearts. And when they are hurting, I am hurting, and it is the most painful thing I've ever felt. When they are hating themselves, I'm supposed to be pleasant and upbeat. It's tough. I'm not good at pretending. I tell them all the good things about themselves knowing their not hearing me. They're not believing it. They won't buy into it because I'm only one out of the four people they've ever met to say such a thing. They think I must be crazy. They think I don't see who they really are because, if I did, surely I would see what they see, which is very negative, indeed.
Last month one of my boys was hurting. Deeply. No matter what I said or did, he was just so sure he was the worst, demon-possessed (his words) child on the face of this Earth, not worthy of love or even life. This month, another boy struggles with the same feelings, only this time in a hospital setting. Even though several of them have been hospitalized several times in their lives, none have ever been hospitalized while living with me. This is new for me. I miss that little bugger and it hurts to leave him there after each daily visit. When I visit, he watches the clock, dreading the minute visiting hour is over. He calls at each "call time" to say he wishes he could be home. It's only for a few days but a few days seems like an eternity. Even though I know he needs this level of care right now, it still hurts. A lot. A third struggles with pervasive sadness each and every day. It hurts knowing there isn't much I can do, personally, to 'fix' that for him. God knows I try but I'm not supermom. Some of my children were runners. Running away was their coping mechanism of choice. I've often wondered how I'd handle a runner out on the road. "Running away" is clearly defined as 'leaving the property without permission.' In an RV, "our property" is a little different and just isn't big enough to give the space needed at times. How would I handle a raging meltdown? Strangers don't take too kindly to hearing it. Can they punch holes in an RV wall? I hope not. I don't know how to fix those walls ... yet.
When I see my children laugh or smile, I wish I could capture that moment, freeze-frame it, and make it last forever. I give the very best I have to give and sometimes my best isn't good enough. That hurts. It hurts to see them hurting. Sometimes I mourn for the people, places and things they've lost. I mourn for the lost opportunities. For them and for me. Can hearts be mended? I suppose so, but they sure do crack open every now and again.
