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The Neediest Child

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I love all my children. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to keep them safe. I enjoy them – watching them learn and grow and adventuring with them. It’s so cool to see how far each one of them have come. How unique each child is and how together we create this family.

There is a child in my pack that pushes my every button. It seems like every minute he’s doing something to get negative attention. It’s non stop and some days I feel like I’m about to lose my ever-loving mind. His voice reaches an octave that makes me want to chew on glass and run with scissors. He will wake up at 3am to go potty and then will decide to wake the entire house up and have a party. He won’t follow simple directions. He makes unsafe choices that make it hard to trust him. When he pees all over the toilet and bathroom floor, when he’s clumsy and breaks something of mine, when he lets the shower curtain drip water all over my bathroom floor, when he leaves the car door open all night and the batter dies, when when when… over and over and over again – I feel like he’s punishing me. I know it’s not rational. It’s trauma. The scars of severe neglect. I’m struggling. And so is he. At school he has started this thing where he’ll retaliate against his teacher by wetting his pants if he’s asked to wait a few minutes before using the restroom. He’s now no longer allowed to use the restroom alone because he violated another student’s privacy by crawling under the bathroom stall… the other student happened to be wiping at that moment and startled, got his feces on my son. It was quite literally a shit show. Once a star student, he’s refusing to do his work and disrupting his class.

It’s exhausting and I am having a hard time not feeling resentful this season. There is so much shame and sadness around this issue.

There’s no Idiot’s Guide to Fostering and Adoption. Or maybe there is and I didn’t read it? Lol. Nobody told me that there would be scenarios like this (or that laundry would be a 24/7 cycle). I don’t feel as bonded with this child. There’s a click that’s missing. He’s 7 and talks like a baby and wants to curl up and have me hold him like a baby. And I feel like such a bad mom because I’m not getting it or don’t have the emotional capacity to be what he needs in those moments. Some days I fantasize about him growing up as an only child in another woman’s home. I truly believe he should be an only child and would thrive. That he’s been so neglected, he worries that there isn’t enough love or attention or food or whatever for him. But there’s no chance of single childhood happening. If I ever recommended the thought to a social worker, we’d risk the powers that be coming in, taking the sibling group and them possibly bouncing around many homes again, separated like they were before. This child has huge trauma and people who know trauma and kids know that the kids who need the most love often ask for it in the most unloving ways. Knowing he went through a dozen homes before he walked through my door, in April of 2018, I can’t let him go through that again. I won’t let it happen.

I’ve been hearing from other foster and adoptive moms who have had similar experiences and it’s so encouraging to know I’m not alone. I’m not giving up on this kid. I truly believe these behaviors and issues will pass and things will get better for our family. More importantly, things will get better for him.

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.

 

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.

 

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. ❤️

 

 

 

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.

 

The day we got you…

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Big J, Little J, I want to tell you a story about our beginning.

The day we got you – November 29, 2016 – was just like any other Tuesday in Seattle. The weather was a cool 46 degrees, overcast, and the ground was still wet from morning showers. It was as if the sky had been crying for us earlier. It was a hard day for everyone, your Grandpa and Aunt especially. Your Aunt and Grandpa took the day off from work to pack up your belongings and move you into our home. In this moment I can’t even begin to imagine how difficult and sad that must have been. To love you so much and want something else for you. Giving you to us was the ultimate sacrifice. So badly they wanted you to have a family. Coupled with the tragedy of losing your Grandma just weeks earlier, and the emotions of the holiday season, it was an especially grueling day to say the least.

At noon your Aunt pulled up to the front of our house in her white pickup truck, along with your Grandpa, packed with bicycles, Big J’s skateboard (which I’m still hiding in the garage for fear you’ll break bones and CPS will take you away), helmets, toys and a black basket with a few pairs of clothes, 2 pairs of shoes and 2 pairs of boots. Everything you had in the world. I greeted your family and the three of us stood there somber for a moment, each of us afraid of breaking down in the driveway. It’s impossible to put into words the pain I felt and witnessed. You see, we would later celebrate gaining you two amazing boys in our family (how did we get so lucky?!?), but in that moment it was devastating because, in a way, your Grandpa and Aunt were losing you. I asked a few light questions like “What are the boys’ favorite vegetables?” and “What is their bedtime?” I also asked your Aunt to bring us some photos of your family that I could frame and have around the house so that you’d have some familiar faces and happy memories to think about.

This was the very first time your family had seen our home, the place you would soon call your own. They checked out your bedroom and a few other rooms and then we walked back out the front yard toward the truck. I started to say “thank you” but a half-sob escaped and suddenly I felt embarrassed. My face was hot. “Who I am to cry in this moment?” I thought. “This is their moment. This is about them. Not me.” Just weeks ago you had plans that would take you all the way to Florida to live with your grandparents.  Everything changed for you. Again. I’m so sorry. The three of us choked back tears and agreed that we’d see each other back here for dinner. As they retreated to the truck, I closed the garage door and sobbed quietly in the garage for a few minutes. Oh my heart.

My mom, who you call Cookie Grandma, was in the room adjacent to the garage, preparing the house for your arrival. She was so excited. We spent the previous week overhauling your room and the house for you. I have the most amazing realtor friends who donated bunk beds and bedding, some staple clothing, games, puzzles, etc… And the house was filled with gifts for you to open from family and friends. So many people came together to show you love and to support us. It was an exciting time. I’m forever grateful.

We planned this day a week earlier at the Bellevue DSHS office where your social worker and 2 of her supervisors sat around a conference room table, along with your Grandpa, Great Grandma, and Aunt, your CASA (Court Approved Special Advocate) and me. Attending via telephone were several other professionals, including your attorney who would file the court order for you to live with us, and more importantly, give Mauricio and I authority to make all decisions pertaining to your health, education and overall wellbeing. The magnitude of this privilege wouldn’t resonate in my mind until days later. A whole room full of people who love you and want the very best for you sat in this room, planning this day – the day that you would become a part of our family.

It was really important to me that you boys have as smooth a transition as possible. That you wouldn’t feel as though you were being “dropped off” at a stranger’s house. So I planned a dinner and game night. On the evening of moving day, your Aunt, cousins, Grandpa, and 2 family friends came over and we shared the table. We feasted on lasagna, a penne pasta in white sauce, salad and garlic bread (thanks, Costco!). Everyone was happy that night. After you boys finished dinner, you took your cousins upstairs to explore your new bedroom and play games… and for a few moments we forgot that you’d be shortly saying goodbye to your family. Before leaving, your family took you downstairs to the family room where you sat on the couch and took photos together. Then your Grandpa took you upstairs and tucked you in to bed. As they left our house, you both wailed and screamed “Papa! No! No, Papa! Don’t Go!” “PaaaaaaaaPaaaa!!” Mauricio and I sat in silence downstairs. We cried. We comforted you. We cried. It was heartbreaking. And it went on for about 40 minutes. Then I rubbed your backs, and as if by magic, you both fell asleep almost instantly.

This was the day we got you. Everything we hear today from our social workers, CASA volunteer, liaison, your family, and legal professionals tells us that we will be your forever home. During our last meeting with our social worker, she said adopting you will be “a slam dunk.” It’s hard to celebrate that because nothing is ever certain until it happens and because of the loss of your biological family unit. How can we celebrate someone else’s tragedy? But as you both know all too well, plans aren’t always set in stone. Although we pray that we get to have you in our family forever, we also pray that whatever is best for you will happen. God doesn’t always give us a roadmap. We pray for your Mom and Dad to be healthy and to make good choices. And if we end up only being temporary in your lives, know that there is nothing temporary about our love for you.

Nothing is temporary about our love for you.

Love you,

Nikki