family

1:30am

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It’s 1:30am on a Saturday. I should be sleeping. Want to know why I am still awake? Because we just had a family meeting. Family meeting around the kitchen island with our sixteen year old foster daughter after I caught her trying to sneak out of my house to go to a party. Stalker mode, huddled in the corner, on the floor of my own  kitchen, in the dark, I caught her in the act of orchestrating her sneak out. (Side note, at what point do we parents become these lame idiots that our kids think us to be? I know when something isn’t right. And even if I didn’t, thanks to ARLO, I would have been notified the moment she stepped out of the house, regardless of which egress.)
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When I confronted her, she said I was mistaken. Her poker face is so good. Unfortunately there have been times in her life where she’s had to lie to survive. She’s a pro at lies and building walls and keeping people at an arm’s length (I think we are so perfectly matched because my husband and I specialize in remodels. We do the hard work of knocking walls down. Seeing the potential.) I showed her copies of her texts and videos proving otherwise, she fessed up (after lying to me six or seven times), and then we sat at the kitchen island and talked.

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ALL THE GUILT TRIPS. Moms, if you are reading this, this is where we were made to shine. Spread it on thick. Get your shine on.
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“I started a support group for foster moms last week. And one of my mom’s shared with me that she has a fifteen year old foster daughter who was recently abducted. She thought she was going to a harmless high school party and she was abducted, shot up with methamphetamine and trafficked. This girl will never be the same. She’s addicted. One mistake and her life is upside down. What if…?”
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“What if something had happened to you? I WOULD DIE!!! That 17 year old punk who was going to pick you up at 11:45pm, what if on the way home at 3am he lost control of his car and you ended up severely injured, paralyzed or dead?”
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“What if the police ended up at this party and you were caught trying a beer or a shot or a hit of something? You don’t have permanent residency in this country yet… what if you lost the opportunity due to something stupid like this? What if it ruined your educational and employment goals!?”
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There were more… but you get the point…. all the guilt trips. All of them. They were legendary.
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Here’s the deal, sweet girl. We love you. We want more for you. We wouldn’t be here at 1:30 in the morning if we didn’t. This is what parents do. I know you feel uncomfortable. You feel shame, and sadness, maybe a little anger.  Probably scared about whether we will still love you, whether you will still have a place in my home, all the burdensome foster thoughts you carry with you. Maybe right now you are wondering what your birth mom would say or do if she were here to handle this. Why aren’t they yelling or breaking things or hurting me or telling me I’m unworthy? We got this. We got you. We care so freaking much. We are here for you. You deserve every opportunity to succeed. Aside from murder and a couple other big ones, there really isn’t anything you can do that would make us stop loving you. And not to condone murder or anything, but I’d probably throw some money on your canteen account, accept a collect call or two, and visit. So as long as you feel happy, safe, loved, comfortable in our home and family, here you will stay.

Brave

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This is my favorite definition of bravery. “The ability to look fear and hurt in the face and say ‘move aside. You are in the way.’” 

I want to be brave. I want my kids to be brave. I want them to do courageous things even when they are scared and riddled with doubt and anxiety. My wish for them is that they always know they were put here on purpose and for a purpose. There are no accidents or mistakes here.

The times in my life during which I have experienced the most formidable amount of fear and anxiety have also been the times in which I’ve grown the most and transformed into a better version of myself. Needless to say, as we press forward toward adoption, fear and anxiety have had a backstage pass to my life these days. It’s overwhelming.

Taking on foster care was the bravest thing I’ve done. Adopting even braver. These kids have changed me. My purpose. My priorities. Everything.

I’m hearing all sorts of whispers of fear in my life right now. “This is only going to get harder.” “Once the adoption happens, all doors to support will be closed.” “You’re going to be legally responsible for their actions.” “Can you really do this?” “They are damaged – they will never be whole. You can’t fix this.” “If a recession hits, do you really think you’ll be able to financially provide the life they deserve?” “Say goodbye to your marriage… it’ll be splitsville by the time they are in middle school.” “You’ll be working for the rest of your life.”

Brave is my word this season. It has my focus. My attention. My mantra so to speak. A few of my current nightstand reads: Brave Enough by Cheryl Strayed, 100 Days to Brave by Annie F. Downs, The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, Option B by Sheryl Sandberg and Adam Grant, and I am Malala by Christina Lamb and Malala Yousafzai. If you’re looking for some inspiration, I recommend any of these (note: the book 100 Days to Brave is a devotional type read and may not be your cup of tea depending on beliefs. 👌🏼 No judgment here!). One thing I’m learning as I focus on “Brave” this season is that there are no regrets. That it’s okay – normal even – to feel scared. It’s not without fear and hurt. That it’s important to strive for progress, not perfection. It’s about letting go – of control, of the ideals around “what I thought my life would look like,” and embracing the uncomfortable unknown. Brave isn’t a feeling but a choice.

Let go and be brave my friends! ✌🏼

“Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can’t be kind, true, merciful, generous or honest.” – Maya Angelou

Families Belong Together

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This last year and a half has been probably the hardest of my life. I’ve experienced growing pains and the truth to the saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

Disclaimer: I’m trying to write this in a way that’s not political, but I’m not sure I can. If anything within this post offends you, you are welcome to stop reading.

I will always be pro immigrant. Pro DACA. Pro Dreamers. Pro families belong together. Pro loving people first before money. Pro helping others who want to come here. Pro love your neighbor as yourself. Because of dreams. Because of oppression. Because they have kids. Because they want a better future. Safety. Opportunity. The American Dream. There will always be room at my table, in my home, and in the community I want to live in. There is more than enough.

I want to share with you a very personal, very difficult to articulate experience that to this day I still haven’t been able to process or talk about. A suppressed memory.

On April 5, 2018, a friend of mine’s husband was picked up by ICE. A man who employed people, payed his taxes, invested in the community, bought Christmas presents for children in need, helped our “first borns” transition into our home, has a special needs son (1 of 3 US citizen children), the list goes on. This friend called me when it happened and I went immediately to be with her. I spent all day sitting in line in the lobby of Homeland Security. After about what seems like 4-5 hours, we were taken up an elevator to a small, cramped room. This room was maybe 12 feet by 12 feet and filled with about 10-12 people. We went there looking for answers and were given the personal items of my friend’s husband. We were told that he had been apprehended, that he was sitting in a holding cell downstairs, and that we could not see him but that he’d be transferred to a private prison in Tacoma later that night when the bus did it’s rounds.

She got on the phone with her attorney, and I looked desperately for a second opinion for them. Please God, let this be a misunderstanding. These are good people. We went back to their neighborhood and split up, looking for the truck her husband was driving when he was apprehended. He was able to have the ICE agent inform us that it was close to home and locked. She went North. I went South. I called her when I found it just two blocks from their home. She cried when I brought her to the truck. Imagining his last few moments of freedom. Remembering that just twelve seconds before hand, they’d waived goodbye before driving in opposite directions. We went back to their home – a home filled with pictures of a loving family, toys, games, their life – and we put on paper all the scenarios of what could happen and how to prepare for them. To do lists. “Keep your house,” I told her. “The market is strong, you have tons of equity, and I can rent it for you for six or seven hundred dollars over what your mortgage payment is. I’ll check on it monthly for you and I’ll let you know of any changes in the market.” She cried. “My kids will never see their father again in this house.” I held her on the kitchen floor. I was so numb, it felt like a bad dream.

The next morning I picked her up and we drove to the Tacoma detention facility. It was a nightmare. We had to check our bags and phones, everything (we couldn’t even bring paper and pen inside), in lockers, then sign in with photo ID. We sat in a stale room for about 90 minutes until our names were called. We’d be allowed to chat with my friend’s husband for one hour. A plexiglass wall separated us. We were in what seemed like a noisy hallway with telephones along the glass. He was in a jumpsuit. I can no longer remember the color of his jumpsuit but I’m pretty sure it was white. The people in white jump suits were low risk and the orange jumpsuits designated higher risk. As they discussed plans – things like who to call, what to do – I just sat there. Overwhelmed with emotion. Shaken. How could this happen? I thought HE was only going to go after the criminals – the drug traffickers, violent felons, thieves. Not FAMILIES. 

I went back with her to visit her husband a few more times. I spoke to him. Took note of what he told me. “Make sure she gets rid of everything we don’t need. Help her move. When this is all over, we’ll be able to buy new beds, sofas, tables… just make sure she only keeps the necessities. She’s going to try to keep everything… remind her that things can be replaced.” Then we packed. For a couple of weeks we made endless donation runs, gave furniture away on Craigslist, and moved their necessities to her parents’ house.

I don’t think I can go further into this story because it’s still happening. And it hurts. It’s like watching someone you care about wake up everyday in hell. How do you make the best of that? I think I’ll always be picking at the giant scab that is this nightmare. It’s heartbreaking. 3 children whose lives were upended in twelve seconds. On the way to school they had a father to come home to, later that night they didn’t.

I’m so ashamed these days of the actions of my government. That children are being separated from their parents and put in cages and kept in inhumane settings. Abused. Violated. Trauma. Childhoods robbed. That children with loving parents who want the best for them, are being ripped from the arms of their parents, thrown in foster care and adopted out. That families are being torn apart. Dreams lit on fire. People are being deported back to dangerous places with no regard for the life. And for what? The almighty dollar?

I’m furious about seeing Facebook “friends” who post absurd memes and videos and misconceptions about a topic they are too ignorant to know anything about. I see their shitty responses on news articles “send them back!” “My grandparents migrated here from Ireland the RIGHT way,” “Quit stealing our jobs!” “They deserved to die of thirst in the desert”. The list goes on. It makes me sick. People I used to know, like and respect. God fearing people who I thought would have more reverence for human life. Today, they make me sick.

Until you know what it’s like to walk into a child’s room and throw every worldly possession of theirs in a garbage bag – birthday presents, tball trophies, stuffed animals – and dump that bag at a Goodwill, because that child’s parent doesn’t have a piece of paper, don’t tell me your reasons against immigration. Don’t tell me these people are criminals. Or that these families knew this would happen or somehow deserve for this to happen. Don’t tell me that child doesn’t deserve to be tucked in at night by both parents. A happy childhood. Safety. Economic stability. Quit posting your self righteous or religious or ignorant ideals about immigration, a topic you probably know nothing about.  Shut the f### up already! We don’t need taller fences, we need longer tables. We need humanity. We need to stand up for what’s right. We need liberty and justice for all. We need immigration reform and to educate others on the issues with our current immigration.

 

The System is Broken

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I feel guilty complaining about the heaviness of our burden here. Because overall we are really really blessed. We have 5 amazing kids who we are adopting this year.

There is a mama in my foster family support group who is living through every foster parent’s nightmare. The two young kids she has been raising for almost three years now are going back to a bio parent. The issue isn’t that they are being reunified, the issue here is that there are serious questions about safety and stability – there’s no foundation for her. Bio mom is barely sober, has no job, has a history of using drugs with her other children (who she gave up to foster care over a decade ago), has made no progress with mental health goals, and the list goes on. She got a housing voucher just a couple of weeks ago and it feels like the Department is putting the cart before the horse. I don’t understand what the powers that be are thinking here. I believe these children belong with their bio mom, but not yet. She needs time. They need time. The transition needs more support than a free housing voucher and a monthly health and safety visit. These children deserve better.

Another mama in my foster family support group has been caring for her fifteen year old granddaughter. A victim of trafficking. This woman tracked down her granddaughter, who had been injected with meth from a group of men that had been abusing her. When the grandmother pursued putting her granddaughter in rehab, the powers that be moved her to a friend’s home where there’s no accountability and high risk for illicit activities and drugs.

Yet another mama in my foster family support group who has been raising twin girls since they were babies 3 years ago, is losing her girls… again. Their parents went to jail for murdering their sibling. About 18 months ago the powers that be tried placing these girls with a bio relative who then failed their background check. The girls came back to this foster mama. Now the powers that be want to try moving them back to this same relative they were once removed from for safety reasons. The reason for their uprooting? Their skin color (or native american heritage).

Another foster mama poured out her heart at a recent meeting. A boy she had been raising for almost 3.5 years was reunified with his bio mother before his bio mother was actually ready to care for him. The week before and in a drug binge, this bio mom left her car on the side of the road, with her 6 year old son inside, gave him her cell phone and had him call this foster mom to come find him. He couldn’t tell her where he was so at almost 11pm, she begged him to get out of the abandoned car, walk to a corner and spell out the words on the signs. For the last year he has spent every weekend at this foster mama’s house… because that’s where he’s safe. That’s where there is food. That’s where someone is caring for him. I know this boy. My sons have gone to pre-school with him.

And another foster mama in my network is being banned from taking any more foster placements. Because she was a whistleblower. She spoke out to the media about her last foster daughter who was moved to an alleged bio father out of state, who turned out to not even be this girl’s real father, and he beat this precious baby so badly that she is blind, suffers constant seizures, and will never be the normal, happy child that she was before the move. This child should have never been moved. This man had a violent crime and history of assault in his background.

Are you mad yet? You should be. I could tell you at least twelve more stories like these. People I know. Kids I’ve met. A system broken in more ways than I can count. Children are slipping through the cracks every day. EVERY DAMN DAY! When is enough enough? When are we going to foster real change? When are we as a community going to commit to the hard work and invest in the future of these kids instead of letting them fall into the cycle of abuse, neglect, drugs, government assistance, prison, mental health problems, homelessness, etc…?

 

Thank you, Teachers!

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(Originally Written May 26, 2019)

Last week was Teacher Appreciation Week so it feels fitting to talk about our experience as a foster family and how teachers and educators have supported us. My biggest advice for anybody with kids is to befriend your kids’ teachers. And the administrators. Pretty much anybody working at your kids school (yes, even the janitorial crew! They interact and love on and teach your kids too!). Even more important if you are fostering. These incredible people spend a little more than 6 hours a day with my kids and they aren’t just educators. They are also leaders and builders of community. They are stewards of compassion and have supernatural gifts of energy, patience, kindness and understanding. And they invest 100x more into the job than what they actually get out of it.

I am so grateful for our teachers. I am convinced they are powered by magic. They are incredible. They are true hero’s that have made a HUGE impact on our lives this year and we will forever be better for them.

Thank you for walking alongside us this year. Thank you for investing in our kids. Thank you for texting me from your personal cell at 8pm on countless weeknights or over the weekend to tell me about something you researched to help my child, or how my child did in your class today, or to check on me. YOU ARE A FRICKIN’ HERO. Thank you for not resenting my child who held up your Kindergarten class for 3.5 months straight, throwing chairs and destroying artwork, posters and projects. Thank you for not giving up on him. Thank you for not whispering in the halls behind our backs. Thank you for not throwing him away. Thank you for seeing the potential that broken, beautiful soul has and helping him on his journey to wholeness. Thank you for being such a huge part of his healing process. Thank you for running straight toward the problem, analyzing the catalysts for the behaviors, and creating a plan that has him achieving goals. Because of you he goes to school excited and for what seems like the first time in his life, he feels pride. His self esteem has skyrocketed. You get all the credit there. YOU ARE AMAZING. We can’t thank you enough.

Thank you to the high school teacher that helped my beautiful teen girl escape a toxic and dangerous situation. You were her lifeguard. You made her feel safe when she was in the throes of hell. You invested in her, connected with her, and held her hand every step into her foster journey. You made her feel loved. And you still do. Thank you for buying her a cell phone so that you could know she was safe before she became a foster kid. You knew she was a slave and you fostered a relationship that provided her with joy and peace in the midst of absolute hell. When nobody else was looking after her, you saw her and you were there. And you didn’t have to be. Thank you for driving 30 minutes out of your way every other Saturday to take her to tutoring and spend time with her. Because of you, she goes to school every single day – not just when someone lets her out, like a caged animal. Because of you she felt empowered to take control of her future. Because of you she has things to look forward to. And because of you we have her. We cannot thank you enough.

Thank you to our AMAZING preschool teachers who have loved 3 of our kids since they were each 3 years old. You taught them so much and remained consistent in their lives when so many shifts were happening. You helped them learn to share (we could probably use a retake on that lesson for sure) and about creating safe boundaries. You helped them feel safe and cared for.

Thank you to the Kindergarten teacher whose patience is supernatural. Thank you for showing me patience. For investing your time and love into my boy. For reaching out to me when you’ve had concerns about his behavior or health. Thank you for the sacrifice you make everyday when you put your own kids in daycare in order to love mine. Thank you for being the other woman in my boy’s life… that after a long weekend or a break, he cries for you and is excited to return to you on a Monday. Thank you for making him feel safe even when he’s not making safe decisions. Thank you for the many things you do to accommodate him and help him pursue his goals. We are so grateful.

Thank you to the school principal who calls me almost daily after school to give me updates on how the kids are and how we can work together to make them successful. Your kindness and investment in our kids is extraordinary. Thank you for taking care of your staff – knowing when they need a break, backing them on tough decisions, providing help. You are the perfect combination of seriousness and fun. Thank you for the resources, referrals, helpful feedback, problem solving, etc… Thank you for going to bat for our family with the district when we’ve needed an assessment. We are so grateful.

Thank you to the Behavioral Interventionists, School Psychologists, Para educators, 1:1s who wake up everyday and make a difference in the lives of our children. Thank you for your research and great ideas, game plans to help our kids be successful, happy and healthy. For testing our kids, for spending so much time alongside them, processing emotions and talking through problems. Thank you for showing up on the bad days, for being consistent, for reading Bobs Books you bought with your own money because you know my kid likes those books and he needs more phonics foundation. It means so much!

Thank you to the amazing administrators, assistants, school nurses, and janitorial crew. Thank you for embracing us. For calling us when our kids look a little under the weather. When you see a deviation from their normal behavior. Thank you for carving out special moments that have taught our kids to be fun and gracious, to work hard and be kind. Thank you for helping us raise accountable kids. We are so grateful!

Redacted Files

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These two thumbdrives, given to me this afternoon (August 28, 2019) by our Adoption Social Worker, possess the entire histories of our 5 children. Detailed compilations of their trauma, how they came into foster care, vital records, birth records, CPS intake calls from strangers, maybe even family, legal records, case notes, notes from CASAs, etc… Their stories before they were mine. A formality in the process of adoption, this is the State’s way of giving an adoptive parent every piece of information they need to make an educated decision as to whether to complete the adoption of their child. It’s called the Redacted File or Disclosures. Redacted because a professional whose sole job for the State is to sit down and black out any names or addresses or contact information listed in the records, probably spent ten hours sifting through the lives of my babies, blacking out names of birth family, former foster parents and other placements, and any information that they deem necessary to keep private. (Yeah, let that sink in next time you want to complain about your job. Someone’s full time job is pretty much whiting out documents.)

Do I really need to look at these? I don’t think that there is anything we could discover about our kids that would change our minds about adopting them. We’ve seen all the behaviors. We’ve lived this life. We know we have an uphill journey. Adoption isn’t a cure for our kids’ past trauma, for the neglect or abuse or exposure to drugs in utero.  We know that the clock is ticking for two of our kiddos – that therapy and medical interventions need to happen NOW and be consistent so that they don’t repeat the cycle ahead of them. What could we possibly discover that we don’t already know about our kids. We love them so so much!!

Aren’t you afraid your kids will end up like their birth parents? I’ll admit, and I’m ashamed to say this but… YES. I am. What if I invest my whole heart and life and every resource I have into giving them a good life and they choose to follow their birth parents’ footsteps. Heroine. Meth. Crime. Homelessness. Domestic Violence. The thing is, there is no guarantee. Drug addiction doesn’t discriminate, white picket fence or not. Although some of the trauma and experiences my kids have had to walk through may predispose them to certain certain struggles, there is hope. And a future (Jer 29:11). I only have ten more years until my  “first born” is an adult. I can’t have strings attached like I’ll only love you if you don’t struggle with drug addiction, suicidal ideation, and depression. 

Will reading the files on these thumbdrives help me understand my children better? Should these thumbdrives be saved for when our kids are adults and have questions? There are so many thoughts.

I feel reluctant to open these files.

Like most decisions made in our household, Mauricio and I will sit down together tonight and discuss the pros and cons to opening these thumb drives. And then we’ll do it together. Knowing how broken our system is, I’m expecting there to be a lot of heart breaking details on these drives – handfuls of foster homes, CPS intakes, police reports, children returned to situations of neglect and abuse, concerning behaviors, emails between the Department, etc… It will break us. I know it will. We don’t need the beginning of their story to change the ending. But we’d do anything to give them a redo and be able to take away the challenges they’ve faced and will continue to face as they grow older.

 

Homemade Playdough Recipe

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Friends, never buy playdough again. This is a recipe I love because it’s just a handful of ingredients, all stuff you probably have lying around the house. It lasts much longer than the store bought stuff, doesn’t contain any weird chemicals, and it costs just a couple of bucks to make a huge batch of it. And it takes less than 5 minutes, start to finish, to make!

Sometimes I sneak in an essential oil or two – either something calming if it’s been a stressful day for a kiddo or something with cleansing properties that supports healthy immune function if we are in flu and cold season.

Homemade Playdough Ingredients List:

  • 1 cup flour
  • 2 tsp cream of tartar
  • 1/3 cup salt
  • 1 tbsp vegetable or canola oil
  • 1 cup water
  • food coloring

Let’s Make It!

1.) Combine the flour, cream of tartar, and salt into a sauce pan (if you’re multiplying this recipe to make a big batch, okay to put all the ingredients in a stock pot).

2.) Once the dry ingredients have been mixed, add water and vegetable oil and set the stove to medium low while stirring.

3.) Cook and stir until the dough starts to become solid. Your dough may be a little lumpy.  – that’s okay. You can work those lumps out later.

4.) Once the dough is completely solid and sticking together, turn off the stove and remove the sauce pan from heat.

5.) Empty the playdough onto parchment paper to cool.

6.) Once cool enough to touch, knead and squish out any lumps. If the dough still feels sticky, add and knead in more salt until you’re satisfied with the consistency.

7.) Separate the dough into sections and add food coloring. Knead and squish in the coloring.

8.) Enjoy your playdough!

Store them in ziplock bags, Tupperware containers, or mason jars. They also make great gifts.

Struggling to Bond with a Child Doesn’t Make You a Bad Person

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If you are a foster parent and you find it hard to bond with a foster child in your care, you are not a bad person. It is not wrong to struggle and face obstacles. What is wrong is treating a child differently than others in your care, giving them less affection or opportunities because of how hard they are to bond with. Kids with trauma are hard. Some of these kids have experienced so much neglect or abuse that they haven’t learned something that would otherwise be common sense for the average child their age. That’s why they are with you. So it’s okay if you find yourself feeling completely worn out by that child’s emotional immaturity or because they are 6 years old and can’t dress themselves or they obsess about food or they have a hard time paying attention or because teaching them about hygiene and getting them to take frequent showers feels like an enormous burden. Just remember that it’s not their fault and that they aren’t intentionally trying to make things hard for you. Try to avoid thinking in terms of “behaving badly” but recognize this as they are having a hard time. And don’t let your frustration show. How blessed are we, that we get to love on and help a child become more independent?!? That is the goal… to help a child become as independent as possible, knowing they might be returned to a situation of neglect.

As a foster parent I have been so blessed to bond with and genuinely love every child that has come into my care. My husband feels very much the same. That’s not to say we haven’t struggled or suffered. Because we have. We’ve had kids come into our home that have had us saying (more like whispering in the privacy of our bedroom) “what were we thinking?” “Can we really do this?” “Why wouldn’t the placement desk inform us of this issue?”

Remember YOU are amazing! YOU provide safety and hope. YOU have opened your heart and your home to a child in need. YOU can do hard things! YOU can love a difficult child. Keep up the hard work, YOU! YOU are creating change. ❤️

 

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving

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On Tuesday I played hooky with my girl. We went the therapy, then shopping for clothes, lunch with my mom & then painting pottery at a local studio near downtown Seattle. We needed this date; I needed it every bit as much as she did. I want to be intentional about giving her my undivided attention as often as possible and being as positive and kind and encouraging. Regretfully this past month I have noticed my interactions have been somewhat negative – “you spend too much time on social media,” “if you want to go to college, you need better grades,” “The photos you are posting on social media and in messages to friends are a little too provocative,” “please stop leaving your nail polish out where the younger kids can get into it,” “I don’t leave these cups in the sink because they are fragile and special…”

I can do better. She deserves better.

Therapy was brutal. And I’ll spare the details but to summarize things, my sweet girl is having a hard season of life. And she needs an outlet and so much love and kindness and to know that it’s okay to feel sad or angry or depressed or anxious… that is there is absolutely nothing wrong with her. That she’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

This thanksgiving I am grateful that she landed in our home. That she’s a part of our family. I am grateful for her grace, kindness, warmth and eagerness to participate in our family. I am grateful for her laughter and love of dancing. She brings so much joy and fun into our home. I am grateful that she chose to keep fighting for herself when life became unbearably difficult for her. That when suicide was an option considered, she decided “this is not how my story will end…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trauma is _____________.

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Trauma is a kiddo melting down while at the happiest place on earth. Shriveled up in a ball, body shaking, crying so hard it hurts his head, burns his throat, and makes him nauseous. Trauma is the scariest thoughts or feelings at the most inconvenient of times. It looks like a foster kiddo peeing his pants in fear at the sight of a police officer because that police officer reminds him of that one time his dad beat his mom, almost to death, and as a result, he lives with strangers. It’s having to immediately pull the car off the freeway because the siren of a passing ambulance triggered unbelievable anxiety and fear for the 7 year old that moments before was playing legos in peace. Trauma is the child that stands over my bed at 3am, making sure I haven’t left him. Trauma is that child that asks me hundreds of times all throughout the day if we have enough food. “What’s for breakfast?” “What if I want more” “Will there be milk?” “Will we have snacks?” “What kind of snacks?” “What’s for lunch?” “Mom, did we have dinner? I can’t remember!!!” Trauma is the child that’s scared to leave my arms at school because she doesn’t know if she’ll ever see me again. Trauma is a child calling me “Mom” after only knowing me for hours. It’s a child begging me to stay forever, after less than a week in my home. Trauma is the girl that screams all throughout the night, haunted in her sleep by god knows what and we hold her and rub her back and we pray for the nightmares to end. God, why won’t they end? 😫 Trauma is a little girl living with strangers because her parents sold her to pay for basic things that you and I take for granted. It’s ordering a seatbelt cutter off of Amazon, hoping it arrives the same day, while holding a precious young teen who is experiencing suicidal ideation because their world feels too heavy for them. Trauma is mean and ugly and raw. It rocks its victims to their core, taking their breath away, stealing their feelings of safety, security, warmth and love. It’s a kindergartener throwing chairs at his teacher, ripping posters and artwork off the walls of the classroom, destroying everything he can because he’s angry… his emotions are too big for him and he doesn’t know where these feelings are coming from or how to deal with them. It is that child that pushes me so far to see how I’ll respond because everyone before now dumped him off at the social worker’s office when things got hard. Trauma is the child that arrives at my house in the middle of the night, reeking of cigarettes and urine. “Hi, my name is ____________.  The kids call me ___________ or ___________. Are you hungry? Here’s your bed, here’s the bathroom, here’s your jammies, this bear is yours. Do you want a hug? Can I rub your back?” It’s a child acting out on a family vacation because in his last placement, he was moved again to another strange family’s house immediately following a family vacation…just when he was starting to feel at home. It is that child that hoards food so bad you find a stash of fermented shelf unstable food under their bed along with ants. It’s is trying to breath through your mouth and act as nonjudgemental as possible while you clean up a child that made themselves vomit. It is crying into your pillow for one minute after bathing a child that responded with such terror and horror at the sight of a shower / bath. As if they were in severe danger. It is hearing a child say they’ve never had a bed before. It’s is muttering “efff it” and giving the kids their favorite cereal for dinner because they’ve had a shit day… and you did too… and you’re not about to make them eat another one of your “healthy” paleo experiments… and besides, you didn’t have time to pick up groceries on your designated shopping day because the school called 6 times and you had to go deal with a kid getting expelled from school, and work sucked and “did I pay those bills yet?” and the house doesn’t meet your cleanliness standards, there are 12 loads of laundry that need to be done, 4 beds that need to be made because the kids had accidents, and you are tired and angry and empty and wondering “why am I doing this? I miss my care free life. And traveling. And reading novels in a nice quiet bath.” It is watching a child flinch because even though you were only redirecting their negative behavior, they were expecting you to hurt them physically… because that’s what they are accustomed to. It is checking your teen girl’s tablet to make sure she’s not at risk for trafficking. Checking her wrists and legs to make sure she’s not using her shaving razor to cut. It is stripping a baby down after a visit with their birth family to check for marks on their body, praying to god there are no burn marks, bruises or signs of abuse from the 3 hour unsupervised visit they returned from. Trauma is relentless; unpredictable emotions, uncontrollable feelings, flashbacks, distractions, grogginess. It is a random recipe of self preservation, hyper-vigilance and dissociation. It is deep emotional scars that affect learning, relationships and growth. Trauma is trying to ground yourself in the midst of a panic attack that creates such intense physiological symptoms, that you think you are dying. But you’re not. And you know it; you just have to push through it. Keep going.
Trauma is processing events with a professional and seeking guidance so as not to trigger our kiddos.

Trauma is an invisible wound. Purveyor of billions of dollars in research, services, billable hours. It is an overwhelming amount of booze and pills and habits that would break your mother’s heart. It is shame and lust. It is begging for mercy. It is trying to keep it all together. It is the kid that’s hardest to love and bond with. It fuels burnout, making this foster life so difficult.

I was told by one of my kids’ therapists this week, “You should consider seeing a therapist just for yourself. The things you witness and experience as a caregiver for kids with trauma may be creating your own trauma.” I laughed because realistically where am I going to find that kind of time in my INSANE (ly wonderful life) and because there is some truth to what she’s saying. BUT instead, I bought a subscription to Sirius XM Satellite Radio so I can listen to the comedy station non stop in my car…. because laughing is cheaper than therapy. And it’s fun. And because trauma is sometimes avoidant coping. We laugh, we smile, we tell the world everything is fine … even when it’s not. Even when we are choking up water from the sea we are drowning in. It’s okay.

Trauma has made my kids resilient. They bounce back. They are tough as hell. They are brave and funny little warriors who understand far more pain than the average human being. They crack jokes at moments that would bring another to their knees. But not my kids.

Resilience.