Literally, David

Earlier today, my seven-year-old son, David, and I were walking to our car after picking up a few last minute grocery items for our Thanksgivng dinner tomorrow.

David: Mom, why is that guy ringing a bell?

Me: Well David, he is raising money for the Salvation Army. They do that during the holiday season.

[Long, thoughful pause]

David: You mean they only fight wars during the holidays?

Differences

Let's see.....

Girls smell nice
Boys stink
Girls giggle when something is funny
Boys punch each other in the arm
Girls like privacy
Boys scratch themselves...anywhere, any time
Girls wear necklaces
Boys use necklaces to tow their toy trucks around
Girls match up their clothes to look pretty
Boys rarely have matching socks
Girls like to dress in nice, clean clothes
Boys are happy with jeans that are so dirty, they are stiff
Girls chatter like little birds
Boys hit puberty, and you pray that God shows
you mercy and ends this transformation QUICKLY!!!

Why do I have six sons?!?!?!

LOST: The mind of one mother

A mother has lost her mind and is seeking your help for its safe return.
Her precious children have stolen it right out from under her.
She had become quite attached and dependent upon it.
If you find it, please return as soon as possible, as it is essential for day-to-day functioning!
No questions will be asked.

My Brain is Playing with Toys

My five year old is currently having a problem obeying. There were several instances today alone. We had to have another one of those talks about what he had done. Finally, in an oh-so sweet and apologetic voice, he explained: "I am trying to control it, but my brain is playing with toys and then I don't do what I am supposed to."

Wow, why didn't I realize that!

Humor Me!

Humor is as good as nourishment. Humor keeps me going. Humor relieves the daily stress that seems to continually penetrate my once seemingly normal life.

When all else fails...laugh! That's my mantra.

Life is far too short to meander through all stuffy and serious. What good is that? It's no good at all I tell you. Lighten up, loosen up, live it up! At least make an effort to.

Several years ago while finishing up breakfast with the family, there were a few pancakes that it seemed nobody was going to eat. Suddenly, a lightbulb went off in my head, and I wondered what the reaction would be if I lovingly tossed one in the direction of an unsuspecting child. Well, I couldn't let a good 'thought' go to waste, so I inconspicuously reached my hand toward the platter, grabbing one of the innocent looking cakes. Nobody even noticed as they were scarfing up their last few bites. In a blink of an eye...wham! A clear shot to my son's arm! His head popped up very unsure of what had just occurred. Then I reached for another, this one missed my other son, but now they saw the glimmer in my eye and the half-cocked grin on my face. Still not sure how they should react, they looked back at me with wide eyes. Finally, I reached for the third and final pancake and gave it a fling. That was it! Now they were in the game. Laughter erupted as each one joined in. "Hey!" they yelled while ducking a flying disc while they scurried to grab it before it was snatched up by someone else.

After a few minutes of this, the pancakes were no longer pancakes, but particles of something once known as pancakes. But never fear, the clean-up crew was there...two doggies very eager to step up to the job and clean the floor. What would have been a routine, mundane breakfast had just given us all a boost that we needed and put smiles on all of our faces.

On occasion, only when mom initiates it (my privilege as Queen Bee), we still play pancake frisbee. It is always the most fun when we have a new, unsuspecting guest for breakfast!

Pancakes anyone???

Not to be outdone by pancake frisbee, I also highly recommend a round or two of "POWDER FIGHT"! Oh yes, quite a bit of fun I might say; however, this one that I stay out of!

Nothing freshens the aroma of the home quite like a powder fight.

This started one day with a little practical joke from one brother to another, which then spread to another. I couldn't dampen their enthusiasm, because truthfully, I didn't want to. I was enjoying it too much.

Oh my, the innocent white particles safe enough for a baby's bottom certainly can stir up quite a raucous! Laughter filled the air, as well as a white shroud, as the children, most of whom have darker skin now looked like painted mimes as they ran through the house squealing.

In the end, no damage is done, and the carpet smelled great!

Laughter is very therapeutic, it is good for us, it is contagious, but most of all, it helps us cope with stress. Trying to insert laughter throughout my day is something I strive to do. It brightens me up, and it makes my children think that maybe I am just as crazy as they thought!

I once read the following from Sebastian Roch Nicolas Chamfort: "The most wasted day of all is that in which we have not laughed."

Amen brother!

Progress

According to Merriam-Webster, the definition of the word Progress is: to move forward; to develop a higher, better, more advanced stage.

To me, the definition of Progress is: when a child who does not get their way only whines, screams, yells, and nothing get broken, nobody gets kicked, and the child doesn't run out the door in the dark of night. P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S. What a beautiful word.

One of my children has significant issues with the aforementioned. Whenever he does not get his way or thinks he is not going to get his way, he reacts by hitting or kicking or scratching or biting or throwing things (big and small) or running out the door or any combination thereof.

Tonight at bedtime, he compliantly went up to bed. I followed him, as per our usual nightly routine. He clambered into bed, I sat beside him talking for a few minutes before I pulled the up covers, tucked him in, and kissed him good night. As I am walking down the stairs, he jubilantly calls out, "Don't let the bed bugs bite!" To which I replied, "You too!".

Ahhhhh...finally, the kiddos are all tucked into bed. Now, quiet time for Mom, right? Wrong! Just as I sit down to relax, my precious one is now upset because he realizes that his stuffed animals are not on his bed, and he wants me to come up to get them. I tell him to hop out of bed, turn on his light, get his stuffed animals, and climb back into bed. He does. However, now he needs me to come and pull the covers up over him once again. The tired mom in me tells him to pull them up himself. Maybe I should have just gone up and done it, but then on the other hand, I have really been working on his reaction when things don't quite go the way he wants them to. I considered this an endurance exercise in which he becomes stronger within. So, with much enthusiasm, I tell him that I know he can do it. To which he yells (in a very whiney voice, I might add), "I C-A-N'-T D-O I-T!" I tell him to just climb under the covers and pull them up. It sounds simple, right? Not to him! "BUT I CAN'T DO IT. I WANT YOU TO DO IT." Imagine this same conversation for another four or five minutes. He eventually comes downstairs, still whining, begging me to just go up and put the covers over him again. It was a perpetual plea. At this point, what was more significant to me than not giving in to him, was about him "dealing" with not getting what he wants. (That is the biggest issue that I, along with the school staff, have with him. If he so much as thinks he is not going to get what he wants, he totally loses it and has actually caused bodily harm to others. On instance was toward the end of the school year, he was walking down the hall with his music class. Apparently, he began running, so the teacher called out for him to stop running. Already made aware that he is prone to these 'episodes', she tells him she will give him a piece of candy. I am sure to some, this sounds like an unorthodoxed method, but trust me, nobody wants him to blow! Well, in his mind he was thinking 'Why would she give me candy? I just ran in the hall. So, she MUST be lying to me!' To him, that is a threat. Her plan just backfired. My son completely cleared her desktop of everything, including the computer and monitor. Everything was on the floor in a blink of an eye. This poor teacher, who by the way was a substitute and several months pregnant, herded all of the other students out of the classroom where they would be safe from his wrath, and she quickly radioed for help. Before the prinicpal and other staff members arrived, my son had thrown six chairs directly at the teacher, breaking two of them!)

So this evening, after several minutes of pleading pass, he becomes increasingly agitated. The next thing I know, he gets up and begins flipping light switches. He is trying to control himself, so he has to do something. Normally, at this point he would have taken off out the door, however, with every ounce of control he can muster, he sits himself back down on the stairs, albeit still crying profusely...but not running, not throwing, not hitting or kicking. Ever so calmly I tell him that he is going to make a choice. He has five minutes to either go up and crawl in bed by himself or he would not be attending a pre-planned outing the next morning. The rage inside of him was almost palpable. He moans as if in actual physical pain. I can tell that he doesn't think he has it in him to follow through with that; he is scared of what he might do. He does not like when he loses control of himself, but that is his coping mechanism. To him, this is his only way to survive.

With him, certain physical contact is actually soothing. This isn't alway the case with children who have been traumatized, but it works great with him. I had him come over to where I was sitting and told him look at the clock. It was 9:30. While rubbing his back and arms, I told him he needed to be in bed by 9:35, still reminding him that I knew he could do this. His eyes darted back and forth to the clock, which was a good indication that he just might do this. Encouraging him some more, I continued rubbing. At 9:34 he swifly took off upstairs, and I heard not another word out of him until he got up this morning happy as a lark!

P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S!!!!!

"Ya'll Got a Bathroom Here?"

My boys....what can I say? I have six of them, but my first to be adopted were Ryan and Brandon. Two completely oppposite beings that came to my home at the ripe old age of 2 1/2 and 3 1/2. After receiving the call from my worker about two little guys in need of a home, of course, I said "Yes". They would be arriving at my house after I got off of work that evening.

As soon as I hung up, I promptly called my then 14-year-old daughter who quickly became just as excited as I was at the thought of having two little people in the house. I anxiously drove home from work imagining what they were going to be like.

I wasn't home very long before the car slowly pulled into my driveway. Okay...they are here! How should I act? They are young after all, and I don't want to scare them. I don't want to seem overbearing, too quiet, too interested, too uninterested, too scary, too weird! I walked out to the driveway to greet them. Their caseworker helped them out of their carseats and introduced them to their new family.

There before me were two precious little boys. The older one, Ryan, still sleepy eyed from his nap during the drive, rubbed his eyes and cautiously examined his new surroundings. He stayed in close proximity to the caseworker whom he knew quite well. Brandon, on the other hand, the youngest of the two, looked like he owned the world! Chomping on a piece of chewing gum, he climbed out of the car, took a quick look around, and then tromped off across the yard to investigate what was on the other side. We stood in the driveway for a few minutes to allow the boys to become acclimated to their new surroundings.

'Precious' is the only word to described these two. Here were two distinct opposites: Ryan, long and lanky, quiet, with his brown curls and huge, dark, almond shaped eyes timidly peering over his wire rimmed glasses, who I can immediately tell is an 'old soul'; and Brandon, short for his age and still carrying his baby chub, with dancing eyes, and chattering up a storm with his extremely clear and beyond-his-years articulation.

Finally, Ryan, with one hand on the back of his head, his eyes still peering over his glasses, speaks his first, and indeed extremely imporant words: "Ya'll got a bathroom here?"

That's my boy!

The Window to Their World

As adults, most of us think we have seen it all, know almost all, and have 'been there, done that'. Comparatively speaking, we haven't. Most of us have moved throughout life with the normal scrapes, bruises, bumps, and struggles. On one hand, that is a good thing because we haven't experienced what most of my children have. On the other, it makes the window to their world more difficult to look through; harder to know exactly what is going on inside of their heads. It is sort of like looking through one of those bevelled or smokey glass windows; you can see something, but you just can't quite make it out. Sometimes that is how I feel in dealing with some of my children.

Reactions to what we might consider everyday, routine things are perceived quite differently by traumatized children. They are unable to read body language or pick up on cues the same way other children do. Because of the traumatic experiences they have endured in their young lives, their developing brains have been 'wired' differently than ours. They do not process, store, or retrieve information the way we do, nor do they always respond to ordinary experiences the same. Their senses are heightened; they are always on 'alert'; prepared to protect themselves from the unknown.

'You are safe now, nobody is going to hurt you anymore', I constantly think to myself. Unfortunately, being in a safe, loving environment simply does not erase the damage inflicted upon them. I wish it did. No, it will take many, many years to heal their wounds, to 're-wire' their brains, and yet even then the scars will remain in some form.

But until then, I forever pledge to continue squinting my eyes in an effort to peer through that foggy, shaded, smokey window to better understand so I can help my children heal their hearts, their minds, and their souls.

Patient and Nursemaid

“Ryan, it looks like the trampoline has been moved. Do you know anything about that?” I ask my then eight-year-old son. Of course, with deer-in-the-headlight eyes, he shakes his head from side to side. “RYAN???!” “Umm…well…umm…Josh and I moved it there yesterday.” “And???” I cautiously inquired. “And, we…umm…well, were jumping off of the shed onto the trampoline.” “You WHAT??!!!

As if whisked back in time, I heard my mother saying those infamous words: “You could have broken your neck!” However, my mother was nowhere around; that was me! It was actually me saying one of those phrases I had heard so many times before yet swore would never cross my lips. My mother incarnate! Oh well, it was bound to happen, right?

So, in my infinite wisdom, I decided right then and there that this youngster needed to learn a lesson. I will teach him! He will see what it would be like if he broke his neck and couldn’t walk or do anything for himself; he will be an invalid for the day! With a quick call to my good friend down the street, and mother to Ryan’s partner in crime, Josh, she decided her son also needed to participate in this “lesson”. Hence: patient and nursemaid.

It was late in the morning when our “lesson” began. Ryan looked oh so precious and quite innocent sitting in his makeshift wheelchair (my red retro computer chair), a crocheted afghan across his legs, and his dedicated nurse, Josh, standing by his side. However, soon we needed to leave to head to our friends' house, so Josh carried Ryan out to the van, safely placed him in the seat, and buckled him up. He then had to somehow fit the non collapsible chair into the back of the van, all while leaving room for the rest of the crew. Upon arrival at our friends, Ryan was safely carried into their house and situated on a dining room chair until his ‘wheelchair’ was retrieved from the van. Josh then placed Ryan into the wheelchair and made sure to cover him with his afghan. Shortly thereafter, it was time for lunch. Nurse Josh fed Ryan his every bite, even wiping his chin when the soup dribbled down.

Lunch was followed up by Nurse Josh reading a story (*sigh*) to Ryan. Eventually our little ‘invalid’ was wheeled to the living room window so he could look out and enjoy the sunshine and scenery. Oh, did I mention that most of the neighborhood kids were frolicking in the front yard? Bummer!

Oh-oh, now Ryan has to go to the bathroom! With much trepidation, Josh carries Ryan upstairs to the bathroom…(okay I didn’t get completely carried away with my little “lesson”). Ryan handled the rest on his own! A few minutes later, back down the two came with Ryan stretched across Josh’s arms and back into the ‘wheelchair’. Another hour or two of bonding between the patient and nurse and the “lesson” was complete. What a long, boring day for two boys!

Was the ‘lesson’ really learned? Probably not!

It's a Good Thing I Didn't Know

Sometimes I want to laugh so I don’t cry. Sometimes I want live and learn. Sometimes I don’t feel like hugging my children. Sometimes I need to remind myself why I made the choices I made. Sometimes I need to remember that tomorrow is another day.

Everyday I must to remember to laugh. Everyday I must live and learn. Everyday I must hug my children. Everyday I must remind myself why I made the choices I made. Everyday I must remember that tomorrow is another day.

When entering into the world of foster care adoption, little did I realize what all it entailed. Sure, I had attended classes, read books and articles, and even spoke with some other parents that adopted through the child welfare system. I thought I knew it all.

Maybe it is a good thing I didn’t know it all. Maybe if I had, I would not have done it, and therefore, I would not have my beautiful, intelligent, witty, insightful, and often wise-beyond-their-years children.

Each day brings new struggles. Each day brings new joy. Each day brings new heartache. Each day brings new hope. Each day brings new dissension. Each day brings new patience. Each day brings new revelations. Each day brings new healing.

Each day we grow closer. Each day we trust more. Each day we reach further. Each day we listen closer. Each day we hug tighter. Each day we dream bigger. Each day we love more.

This is my story. It’s a story of a single mom whose lifelong dream was to have a houseful of children. If there is one thing I have accomplished, it is just that! My house is full of children. However, they are not quite the children that I pictured in my daydreams so many years ago: carefree, innocent, undaunted, naïve. No, those children are not my children.

All but one of my eight children came to me years after their birth. Years after their innocence was lost, their bodies were bruised, their bellies were hungry, their hearts were broken, their trust had waned.

For the past ten years, my days have been filled nourishing their bodies, healing their hearts, teaching them to trust, rebuilding those bonds, making them whole once again.

My job, as it is for thousands of other adoptive parents in our great nation, is not for those that are weak at heart, short on patience, or easily grossed out. I have to be prepared at a moments notice to dodge a punch, break up a fight, run to the school to find out how many days my child just got suspended, to be cursed at, spat at, meet another principal about one of my other children exposing himself to other students, to continuously clean poop out of the underwear of a child who has been potty trained for at least nine years, to take my jewelry out of my son’s room and put it back in the jewelry box that he stole it from, to confiscate the hidden knives in a bedroom, to scrape dried, rotted food off of the closet shelf where it secretly stashed, to repair holes in walls, doors and screens, to sweep up the tiny pieces of the treasured lamp my deceased grandmother left me after it was thrown on the floor by a seven year old during a tantrum.

And that was all in one day. Just kidding, just kidding! Humor is a staple in my household. To me, it is like water to a plant. It sustains me. I must have it to survive! And I will survive.

This is my story…