Everyday Grace

Earlier this week I found myself driving downtown very early in the morning. I was tired and out of my routine. As I drove towards the sky rises and into heavier traffic I found myself looking inward and focusing on myself. Thoughts about the kids, school work, behavior problems, dinner, budgets, writing tasks and work crowded my mind. Typical working mother multi-tasking. If my brain were a computer I would have 20 tabs open at once. It is no wonder so many of us are just so tired all the time- our brains are always on the move!

I found my way to my destination and, in my typical fashion, circled the block a few times trying to figure out where I should park. As I drove past a well manicured green space something bright blue caught my eye. Foxes! A family of over-sized colorful, movable foxes were peeking out from behind a group of trees. Last weekend my family and I wandered into a group of over-sized and colorful snails hiding out in the downtown library courtyard. We then saw similar birds in another part of the city. The foxes made me smile, remembering the fun surprise happening across the snails had been for my boys. "These animals must be all over the city!", I thought to myself. For just a moment, those computer tabs in my brain shut down and a warm feeling crept in. 

I remained confused as to where to park and so I pulled in to a small lot. The attendant stopped me and I assumed he was going to take my payment so I began rooting around for my wallet, barely making eye contact with the bundled up gentleman at my window. "Good morning!". He greeted me happily. His smile beamed at me. Warmth crept in a little more. After taking the time to ask me why I was downtown he suggested another parking garage just down the street that would better suit my needs for the day, and that was less expensive. He lost business in his little parking lot because he was doing the right thing for me. Warm. Warm. Oh so warm!

As I pulled in to the parking garage down the street the attendant flung open his window. Again, my expectations for whatever interaction we were about to have were low. "Good morning!". Here was another human being smiling at me again. After telling me to have a "most amazing day" he waved me on. so.much.warmth.

Everywhere I went that day my interactions were the same. Police officers, city workers, cafeteria employees and fellow citizens were going out of their way to show kindness and respect to one another. Smiles were waiting down the hall as I turned the corner. Doors were held. "Please" and "Thank You" were repeatedly offered. And with every pleasant interaction any frustration I had carried with me into the city that day melted away. Sometimes our fuse is just ready, isn't it? There are times that one frustration after another pile up and before we know it we are primed to explode at whatever the next frustration might be, regardless of how small. Like many people, I am no stranger to the short fuse. Often, for seemingly no reason at all, I am ready to explode, anger living just below the surface.All the time, it seems. I am two inches from an angry outburst all.the.time.  But on this day, pleasant interaction after pleasant interaction slowly extinguished that fuse. Just think how much we could all move forward along whatever path we are individually on if we all treated each other this way. One big train of warm fuzzy feelings, winding through our families and communities. 

I was driving home that evening when the sunset painted the sky. I am usually inside the house during this time of day, especially during the colder months, when the sun sets earlier. I am rushing to finish my work day and then rushing downstairs to start dinner and homework, and then rushing out to after school practices and scout meetings. Sunsets are not usually on my radar. But on this day I had no choice but to enjoy the beauty. And it was spectacular. 

The grace of God is in the ordinary. In the every day. We know this, of course. In theory, we understand this and we have been told this many times in our lives. We see this ordinary grace in literature, we hear it in songs on the radio and our ministers share it with us over and over again. But I think we tend to forget. We tend to ignore the mundane and focus on the wait for the Big Sign. 

But what if that big sign doesn't come? What if we spend our entire lives waiting? What a tragedy that would be, to miss the every day grace. To miss a brief but tender moment with a child because we are rushing out the door. Grace lost. To lose focus on a conversation with a loved one because we are so focused on getting to our destination on time and so instead are thinking about the traffic that surrounds us. Grace lost. To miss sharing large, colorful animal statues with my boys, because I was annoyed at the change in my routine that brought me downtown in the first place.  Grace lost for sure. 

There is a bigger picture, though, than the simple fact that God is in the details. He is also in the pain and suffering and even the little frustrations we face every day. What if these hard moments are God's way of saying "Pay attention!". "Open your eyes and LOOK!". How many of those moments have I missed? 

"Pay attention! Your child's behavior is trying to tell you something!"

"Look at your husband, right now! Watch this gentle moment he is having with his son!"

"Open your eyes! Your coworker is hurting." 

Hard moments are tough. They can be physically and emotionally draining. They can sometimes feel like huge setbacks, or bring big feelings of disappointment. But they are also the times we so often remember. The moments that live in our hearts, whispering to us to make a change. Maybe it's an adoptive mother who will never forget the look in the sunken eyes of the children at the orphanage where her child once lived. That hard memory of having to walk away from all of those little ones, leaving them behind, knowing they don't understand why there is no love, yet, for them, might lead to a heart whisper that leads to a lifetime of working for orphans.  That call from a friend announcing the death of her marriage might lead to a heart whisper of thankfulness in a relationship and a desire to work harder to sustain a marriage. That hard moment of seeing another mother fall apart at the set backs of a special needs child, yet again, may lead to a heart whisper to get involved, to become a part of someone else's village. Yes, hard moments are tough. But they are needed. They are wake up calls from God to do something. To notice something. To stop running and just be, if only for a moment. 

Grace in the ordinary and hard moments bring His love for us alive. Maybe it's a warm feeling brought on by the goodness of others, a fox statue or a colorful sunset viewed from the windshield of your car in rush hour traffic. Or maybe it's a big push found in the heart whisper we hear as we sit in  the ruins of yet another disappointment or set back. They are easy to ignore, the warmth and the whispers. Open your eyes! Look! The moments are everywhere, aren't they? 

What warmth have you felt, or what heart whisper have you heard today? Share your comment below. 

Adopted Children Are Not Merchandise- Using Appropriate Adoption Language

It is common knowledge among anyone not living under a rock that no one likes to be labeled. Schools go out of their way to not saddle a young child with a label that will follow them their entire academic career. Stay at home moms push back against their label, while working outside the home moms often hate their moniker as well. Labels are, by definition, a way to classify a group, to set apart. And labels are notoriously not all inclusive. You can like a particular rock band, for instance, and be labeled a member of their "army" but that doesn't mean you don't also like many other forms of musical expression. Labels are often so offensive that groups of like minded people go out of their way to choose their own defining labels; we know we can't escape them and just be labeled "human", so we find ones we are comfortable living within. Obviously, being labeled a fan of a particular musical group is not really all that damaging. But you see my point.

There are two sides to the label discussion, and both are passionate. On the one hand, what someone else says about you, how they categorize you, really speaks more to the state of their heart than yours. Our worth is certainly not found in a label, even though many strive, at great cost, to achieve their most prized label, whether that be "Mom", "CEO", or "Mr. President".  But on the other side of that argument stand many, many people who have been harmed by the labels others have placed on them.

The labels we use to describe others is such a big problem that many organizations have created glossaries of "preferred language". GLAAD provides a Media Reference Guide of terms to avoid on their website. Many adoption advocacy organizations do the same. And for good reason. A person who has never walked a path outside of the traditional may not know how much damage a casually thrown out comment, (read: label), can do. If that describes you, then pay attention.

In the wake of the 2016 Presidential elections emotions are high. In sharing a well written Huffington Post article, (Read it here.), on why some internationally adopted children have been scared by the anti immigration rhetoric that has polluted this election cycle the following comment was made:

"there are millions of kids in the foster care system..maybe you should have looked into the citizens of the US before you imported brand new kids from another country."

While there are so many things wrong with this short comment, so much hatred and contempt and ignorance, I want to focus on the label. Do you see it? Imported.  Children are not items to be bought, sold and imported. (As in, "How much did he cost?") And when language like this is used, it degrades the person being labeled. Even if that is not the intention, this type of language slowly wears down a person, demeaning them yet again, showing them, yet again, that there are people out there in their world who think less of them. Who think they are less deserving than others, simply because of where they were born. And it's not just adoptees who face this feeling of being less than. Anyone walking their own unique, spectacular and brave journey has faced this type of judgement. Words are amazing. They let us share, feel, think, escape. And they also hurt. 

It is important for adopted children to feel grounded. To truly trust in who they are. This is an extremely difficult task on a god day. Questions of "Why" and "What if" are always floating just beneath the surface. Finding their place in a world where they are not connected on that primal level with their most loved family members is not easy. Adoption, just like walking any other beautiful non traditional path is an amazing gift, but it doesn't come without loss. Truly knowing who we are is hard. To be labeled as merchandise that can be bought and sold and imported makes it so much harder. 

When an adoptee does not feel grounded big problems can occur. In little ones this shows up as low self esteem, focus and learning deficits, and often severe behavior problems. In older teens and adults it can lead to drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness and even incarceration. Feeling comfortable in our own skin, knowing who we are and who stands with us is vital to a healthy sense of self. Hearing words like "bought" or "imported" are not just insensitive. They can be incredibly damaging. 

What does all of this mean to you? It means we all need to think before we speak. Those words that we feel are funny or harmless might be like daggers to the heart of the person on the receiving end. Some would argue that we are all just too sensitive, and they might be right. We all want to raise compassionate children who are self aware enough to withstand the labels. But as we work towards that shared goal, let's not make it any harder on adoptees than it need be.

If you would like more information on appropriate adoption language to use with your friends and family, consider this list of suggested language from the Adoption Council: Accurate Adoption Language. For more information on how labels can be damaging to our children, please see this article from Psychology Today. 

If you are an adoptive parent, or the friend or family of an adoptive parent, please consider sharing this  on your social media sites. 

So different, yet kind of the same

Sometimes I think that hermit crabs are the smartest creatures on earth. They hang out in their shells, away from the world. Like the Grinch. Up there, on top of his mountain, surrounded by piles of garbage.  Like going off the grid alone, just me and family.  Alone. No news of the horrible things that go on in this world. But let's face it, that is not the world we live in. Even the Grinch had his dog, Max.   This life was meant to be shared, and there is no hiding from it. Besides, I am a leader, of sorts. We all are, aren't we? Every single one of us has at least one someone looking up at us, watching us, taking it all in. I have two. And because I am leading those two young people, I have to fight the urge to go into hiding.

This morning I sat down on my oldest son's bed and gently explained to him the outcome of the presidential election. And while it is the topic that is on the lips of our entire nation today, it is not the first time I have sat down on that bed to have a tough conversation. We have covered racism. Bullying. Adoption. Loss. Pain, both physical and emotional. And I know that I am not alone. These conversations were happening across the country,  in bedrooms, at kitchen tables, in the car on the way to school. Solidarity, parents just trying to hold it all together and find the right path for your family. I want to fist bump every single one of you. We've got this.

I'm not all that worried about my family. Or yours, for that matter. Like I said, we've got this. What I am  concerned about , what kept me awake last night as I processed this most recent attack on decency, were those other families. What are the young people of the other side being taught? What are those kiddos hearing during those bedroom, kitchen table or carpool chats? Which got me thinking.  Are they really hearing anything that much different? Some of them may be hearing hate speech, sure. But I am thinking that many of them are hearing words very similar to what I said this morning. Many of them are probably just like me. A little tired. Drinking cold coffee. Wondering how that window blind came all the way unrolled, again. Moving stuffed animals to find a spot to sit down while absent mindedly rubbing the dog's ears. And then sharing their beliefs. Do I agree with those beliefs? Sometimes. yes, and often no. But what I know for sure is that I cannot change those other parent's beliefs any more than I could change my own. Are there people out there warning their kiddos against people like me? Like you? I can, and should, protect my family from hate. I will always be vigilant to what my little loves are subjected to. But I am not a monster that other parents should warn their children about. And neither are many of those people who hold beliefs different from mine.

Before you shout at me, listen. Think. Ask your friend, your neighbor, your relative holding a different view to share their reasoning. Don't ask this to change their mind. And don't ask it to change your own. Ask it to begin to build a way to a stronger relationship, a stronger family, or a stronger neighborhood. I have friends, neighbors and yes, even family members who I genuinely like and trust around my family yet we are miles apart politically. Or miles apart in how we choose to spend our money, or how we choose to raise our families. Frankly, I am not all that exciting of a person. I like to read and do quiet activities. If everyone I surrounded myself with was just like me, not only would we be the most boring group of people on the planet but no one would grow. And we all know what happens when we stop growing.

We spend so much time telling our children that change comes from within. That they cannot change anyone else except themselves. That they need to lead by example and do what needs done in their world. And that is what we talked about this morning, on that bed, in that dark room with the world waking up around us. We talked about how we didn't change. What we believe hasn't changed. About how we can't expect to change others. About how we can't just talk about it all. We must do. Do. We talked about what we can do, right now. Today. Tomorrow. And we made a plan. Ask a teacher about how her day is going. Be brave and say hello to a neighbor when out walking the dog. Smile more. Slow down. Imagine what, or who, we can see if we stop running everywhere?

When we walked out of that bedroom this morning the sun was beginning to light the rain covered street. The puppy hopped down off her favorite spot on my son's chair, picked up her new blue stuffed monster toy and follow us down the hall. We were met at the bottom of the stairs by the youngest member of our family, wrapped up in his large fuzzy brown blanket, asking for breakfast. Things are currently more black and white in his world and breakfast comes every day at this same time. Instead of shouldering past him or stepping on the edge of the blanket in an attempt to trip his little brother, I watched my oldest child smile at him, tell him he was hungry too, and step aside to let him get to the breakfast table first. Slow down. Smile. Stop running. And breath.

New beginnings

Welcome back. It's been a while, hasn't it? Two years, to be exact. It's been two long, busy, fun, aggravating, hopeless and hopeful years since I have sat down to pour out my thoughts. Time stopped for a while, as I worked towards accepting and then figuring out who I was, where I fit in, and how to be the type of mom and wife I really never thought I'd need to be. Don't celebrate just yet- I am still a work in progress. My return might be slow. It might be somewhat scattered and of absolutely no interest to anyone.

Things around here will be changing a little. To a community, of sorts. I invite you to stick around. And if you have a map for life, that'd be great, bring it along. No, on second thought, don't. Your life map won't guide me. Plus, I suck at reading maps. Thank God for GPS, am I right? So let's see. Ditch the map and bring instead your humor, your compassion, and some really strong coffee. Let's all be thankful today for new beginnings, funny things that make us laugh, and drinking coffee while it's still hot. 

Why I am trying to become even MORE of a helicopter parent

And so it begins. Last week I attended yet another school meeting to discuss my little RADish. I came prepared with an official letter asking for my son to be re-evaluated in an attempt to reopen his IEP. I brought two short teaching articles to pass out to the team, because I know that despite the many combined years of experience in the room this particular group of educators doesn't have a lot of experience with the unique cocktail of anxiety and behaviors my youngest presents daily in the classroom. I have made many attempts to educate the school team on early life trauma and its effects on a developing brain. I have given tips on managing behaviors and preventing sensory overload. And because of the challenges my youngest son faces in a peer setting, I have shared, in detail, the story of his adoption.

As most adoptive parents will tell you, these stories are sacred. You can ask me how I feel about the adoption movement currently sweeping through churches, and I will tell you. You can ask me generic adoption questions, and, if I am able, I will answer. But if you ask me a personal detail of my sons' adoption stories, my lips will be sealed.

"Was he abandoned? I hear that the babies are just left by hotels and police stations. Where was (insert child's name here), found?" 

"Did his real mother do drugs? Is that why he is 'the way he is'?". (I shudder at this one. I am his REAL mother. And the WAY HE IS is perfectly made by God, thank you very much.)

So you can ask, but unless you have a valid reason, you will not hear the details of their early days from me. Everyone in our world is on a need to know basis, and most people do not need to know.

I felt that the school team held that golden ticket to the entire story. I have found that many of the resources we come in contact with, from therapists to church caregivers to school teachers do not have a clue what havoc early life trauma can wreak on a young child. So I take a deep breath, say a little prayer that this time I will not cry, and share.

All of that to say this: this school team knows my baby's background. So imagine my surprise when I ask the innocent question, "What is a social story?".  I was informed that my son was having these social stories read to him daily, and I had never heard that term, so I asked. And the team very proudly showed me a binder with a photo copied story about keeping our hands and our feet to ourselves. Very appropriate, right? After all, we have one of these at home, that I made for my son two years ago. Seems I was ahead of the game. And then I read the story. And then I quietly explained that they were not to read this to my son again, not without changing a few things, and that I needed to see every social story they were sharing with him.  And here's why.

"If you hit and kick, no one will want to be around you. No one will want you around,"

Um, can we say unfriendly adoption language? Seems while I was fighting for an understanding of my son's specific needs I dropped the adoption ball. I assumed that the school understood the adoption and abandonment part of my son's story. The light bulbs going off in the surprised eyes around the room told me otherwise.

November is National Adoption Month. A month to bring attention to the beauty of adoption. A month to spotlight the plight of orphans around the world. And I love adoption, of course. I do not, however, believe that adoption is the right choice for every family, and so I am careful about the way I advocate. So for this special month I want to bring a different aspect of adoption to light- the fight that many adoptive parents are fighting every day for safe adoption language. In their kids' schools. In their kids' television shows. In the movie theaters. Adoption adds a whole other layer to the media and conversations our children are exposed to. We scour the Internet for movie reviews before we allow our young ones to attend a movie field trip with their day care class. (Bet you didn't know that adoption themes run unchecked throughout popular childrens' movies.) We stop relatives from making yet another "Everything that is made is China is cheap" remark while our innocent little ones are unwrapping Christmas presents. (And yes, that actually has happened to my family, twice.) We arm our elementary age kiddos with the ammunition to answer intrusive questions from peers at school. We help create  "All About Me" posters that have no baby pictures and offer to visit classrooms to explain the Chinese New Year and Autumn Moon holidays.

I have done all of that. And I will continue to do it for as long as my boys need me to. What I didn't do, what I didn't even think I needed to do, was oversee every single aspect of their school careers. But those two sentences in my son's social story? They could have been setting him up for failure every time they read to him.

I am not a helicopter parent. Or at least I try not to be. I let my oldest son wander off in stores, knowing that he knows his boundaries and rules. I no longer keep my youngest within arm's reach on play dates, fearful that he will bop his new friend on the head with the heaviest toy he can find. A few weekends ago I sat on a park bench chatting with my sister in law while my boys ran around with their cousins. At one point they were no where to be seen, having wandered into the woods. I could hear them, so I knew they were still close. Every day I walk that fine line between letting them be boys and explore their worlds and wanting to keep them wrapped in bubble wrap and in my line of vision at all times.

But last week I learned that I need to become even more of a helicopter parent when it comes to the adoption messages my boys hear. I know that I may come across as over protective and slightly unstable to my non adoptive parent friends. But I vow to no longer let that bother me. While I looked around that meeting room last week and saw those light bulbs go off in the eyes of my son's school team, I have to say that I had a light bulb moment as well. I cannot expect my sons' school to use appropriate adoption language. So it's up to me. I have already rewritten a few pieces of the social stories being used with my son. I have already let both of their teachers know that I am available to talk about appropriate adoption language with them, if they ever have a question. My Special Needs Mom cape has been firmly attached for a while now. But my Adoptive Mom cape had quietly fallen off. Think how high I'll be able to fly now that I am wearing both!

My Christmas Planner

The Christmas season is upon us and, as usual, I am super excited. Like, super excited. I have always loved the holiday season but people, it is so much more fun with the little guys around. So. Much. More. Fun.

Which is why I have already pulled out my Christmas planner. I have been using the same planner for a few years now, which is great for a few reasons. First of all, this planner was created from a hard covered wire bound notebook. I chose one with two dividers. For my planning needs I require five separate sections:

1. To Do
2. Gift List
3. Holiday Activities
4. Giving (time, monetary, donations)
5. Recipes & Table Decor (meal planning)

Because my notebook only has three sections I added the extra ones I needed by using red metallic holiday tape. Simply add the tape to the edge of the page and fold over to the back and voila - holiday inspired tabs! 

Every year I just tear out the old pages and start fresh. Reason number one why this planner is great- no need to buy a new one every year. I am going on year number three with this one, and I anticipate I will get at least a few more years out of it. Very cost effective. Now I don't know about you, but I am all about keeping costs down during the Christmas season!

The second reason why I like using the same planner year after year is this: memories. This morning, while the boys were eating breakfast before school, I sat at the table with them, my coffee, and my Christmas planner. Before I tore out last year's pages I took a little walk down memory lane. Last year's notes, to do list, recipe ideas, (Oh those reindeer cookies were NOT a good idea!)... There's the snowman sticker my youngest son stuck on the cover last year. And there's the homemade gift ideas the boys and I created last year. Remembering Christmas past- always a good thing. 

I don't know about you, but I need my lists. There is always something popping up, stealing my time and energy. This week alone I have found myself adding a birthday party invite for my oldest son, (on a school night!), a music therapy consult, and about a thousand telephone calls to my already busy To Do List. So if I don't plan, I find myself seeing the world pass me by. And passing my boys by as well. There are television shows I want to share with them. There are tree lighting ceremonies to attend and Christmas lights to drive by. There are handmade gifts to make, cookies to bake, and fire stations to deliver those cookies to. And there are budgets to stick to, am I right? And what about all those great ideas you find while scrolling through Pinterest? (Wait, what? You don't stalk Pinterest while watching TV at night? I swear there are days that I have some sort of attention deficit.  I cannot simply sit still on the sofa and watch a show. But that's a post for another day...)

I keep the To Do List in the first section, so that it is the first page I see when I open the planner. Every time I think of something that needs done I simply jot it down on the running To Do list. All those little things, like asking the teachers what school supplies their classroom needs so we can send in a gift, and getting the dog groomed before any holiday gatherings in our home find their place here. I use the Franklin Planner method of tracking progress, marking my tasks as either "in progress", completed, or delegated to others.

In the Gift section I keep track of store sales and websites where I might be able to find the best deals. This way, I don't have to pull in my sweet husband on every little detail. I make it a point to sit down with him a few times over the gift buying season to show him a particular website or store ad so that we can discuss gifts, costs, and logistics, such as online ordering versus driving all over town. I do the same with our home decorating. My sweet husband really doesn't care what decorations I choose each year, including what I choose to re-purpose or what needs to be purchased. He just needs to know the bottom line- how much is all of this going to cost. And I have to say that by using my planner wisely, that cost is much lower than it would be without it. Knowing what we have on hand, knowing what hand made items I would like to try, and knowing where to get the best deal on decorations that need purchased prevents me from impulse buying or duplicating what we already have in storage here at home.

Every Holiday season we are just bombarded by philanthropic requests. We want to help everyone, don't we? But honestly, we can't. We can, of course, keep all those needs in our prayers, which we do. But I need my boys to see how we determine where we spend our money. And I need our boys to see us giving of ourselves. But I am human, and I will forget all of those needs. And I am OK with admitting it - my brain is like a sieve.

My boys are learning from my Christmas planner as well. They are seeing me plan and prepare. They are hearing about budgets and they are helping me to plan our donations and service. They are active participants in planning gifts for others and they always have something to look forward to when they check out the Holiday Activities section. 

The only rule to my planner? The boys know that they are not allowed to open it or look at it unless I am with them. I wouldn't want them to read about the gift ideas we have for them. I remember the days when I didn't have to worry about this - but now the oldest can read to the youngest. I swear, teaching them to read has not always been helpful! (Calm down, no haters please, I am just kidding. But seriously, do they have to read EVERY sign they see out the car window?)

My love of organization and my love of Christmas, married. What could be better? 

Traditions

Last night, as my husband and I were snuggled up in the basement family room, me reading on my phone and petting the puppy, my husband watching Lebron bring basketball back to Cleveland, it hit me. "Tomorrow is Halloween!", I exclaimed, sitting up abruptly and accidentally pushing Marley Pup to the floor. "The Great Pumpkin needs to come tonight!". My husband visibly rolled his eyes. And I agree- it might seem silly to rush around and set out little trinkets for every holiday. Maybe. But to me, it's a memory. It's excitement. It's a tradition I started when my oldest son first joined our family. His first American holiday with his new family was the Fourth of July. He was so pleased with his little flag and star spangled stuffed bear. And I was pleased with his sweet smiley reaction. A tradition was born.

As the years have passed I have witnessed my oldest son sharing his excitement about this holiday tradition with his little brother. I know it won't be long before I will have to navigate the maze of one kid starting to question how these trinkets show up every holiday while one little one still full on believes. But for now, for a short while longer, I can enjoy sneaking around the kitchen late at night, setting out whatever little gift I found. Placing it on the kitchen table, at each boy's seat. The lights low, the hour late, it almost feels as though the warmth in the house is brought out exclusively by the fuzzy feelings of love these family traditions bring on. This glow follows me upstairs as I sneak in to each boy's room, checking on them, pulling blankets up, (on the oldest), and down off the face, ( of the youngest). It sticks with me as I wash my face and climb into bed. I fall asleep amid memories of past holiday mornings. The St. Patrick's Day when my oldest found a small watercolor set waiting for him. The Valentine's Day that both boys found new heart themed plates and cups waiting on the table for breakfast. The July Fourth that brought blinking star sunglasses.

And those memories are amazing, sure. But it is what is underneath those little gifts that bring the true power of family traditions. The memory of sitting at the kitchen table painting with my son. Those heart themed plates? We still use them. And they still make me smile.

Family Meeting Night. Chinese Tea Parties. Apple picking. Christmas lights viewing. New Christmas books to read at bedtime. Bedrooms filled with birthday balloons. And little inexpensive gifts for holidays, always waiting on the kitchen table, ready to greet my boys as they bound down the steps in the morning. Family traditions are important. I already knew they were important to me. And every holiday, as I listen to my boys talk about the "Great Pumpkin", or the mysterious Valentine's Day gift giver, I begin to understand more and more how very important holiday traditions are to my boys as well. This morning, while my oldest son slept, his little brother ran to his place at the table, exclaiming at the spider covered drinking cup and puffy Halloween stickers. As I was sitting down to join him, gently cradling my mug of steaming coffee, the lights low and the house quiet except for my son's giggles, I smiled at my sweet husband. The skeptical one. The roller of the eyes.

"You know, when I was a kid, I only had Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy visit my home. You are a very lucky boy.", my husband said, as he picked up the cup to get a closer look at the spooky spiders. I nodded my head in agreement, knowing that he understood why this tradition was so important to me. These two sweet boys had nothing. They came to us malnourished, scared, with no understanding of family or love. I want to give them the world. And I know that giving them the world really means giving them pieces of me to carry with them as they grow.

Family traditions. Tonight my boys will bounce into the house after school, ready to throw on their costumes and rush out into the damp rainy evening collecting candy from our new neighbors. But not before they eat a delicious dinner of meatball mummies with "bloody" tomato dipping sauce. (I am the mom of boys, after all!) This weekend we will cut out colorful construction paper leaves to write our "thankful thoughts" on. And throughout November, as I move about the kitchen, preparing meals, washing dishes, packing lunches, I will read and re-read each of those leaves, reminding myself of our many blessings. Big, like Forever Families, and small, like Coffee. Big to my boys, like Winning the Football Championship and small, like Crunching Leaves Under Our Feet as We Walk the Dog.

Creating these thankful thoughts won't be easy for my boys. Tracing the leaves, cutting them out- that they can do. But thinking thankful thoughts, reminding yourself to enjoy the small bits of life in between the big stuff- that is something that must be modeled and taught. Another positive result of family traditions, teaching stuff our kids need to know but don't always pick up on their own.

And after that we will move on to our next family tradition, marking the change in seasons and the growth in my family, as little trinkets go from matchbox cars to football cards, to God only knows what a teenage boy would find fun. Giving little gifts is fun for me, sure. Building memories, establishing a strong sense of family, teaching my boys to appreciate the little joys in life, and sharing with them the joys of anticipation, that is what creating family traditions is really about. Family traditions help to define our lives. They can provide a strong sense of safety and can ground us in this confusing world. 

 So this one has passed. And I am already dreaming of  turkey shaped erasers and heart covered pencils, (in blue, for my boys, of course!).

If I Can Remember That...

Every time I turn around you are there. If I leave a room you find me. If you are forced to go up to bed without me you scream my name as you are carried away. There are days that I think you are over this fear, days that I believe that you finally understand that I will always be here for you. There are days that I can actually walk to the bathroom, go inside, close the door, and enjoy a few minutes of privacy without you trying to break in. I can hear you out there, you know. I hear you asking "Where is Mommy?" and then I hear you walking towards the closed bathroom door. Your footsteps unmistakable, I double check that the door is locked and then call out to you. "I'm right here, baby. Give me a few minutes. I'll be right out." You don't give me a few minutes. You turn the knob, testing it. You stick your fingers under the door. You talk to me as though I am not in the bathroom, as though you have no concept of privacy.

There are days that I can now be in the kitchen while you are in the family room. You wander in every so often, ask for a hug, get a drink, and wander back out. I watch you still, you know, even when you are in the next room. I value my time alone, but I watch you nonetheless, your past behavior having instilled in me a type of hyper vigilance of my own. I always need to know what you are doing, where you are. So in a way, I get it.

Sometimes I can get too comfortable with you. Sometimes I think you are "over it". That maybe, just maybe, we have accomplished something here, you and I, and you have finally learned to trust.

The other night you and I were alone. Your dad had collected your older brother from the tree out front and took him off to run errands, leaving you and I alone. I pulled out the fruit for the frozen fruit salad you wanted to make, and gave you a big bowl. You were so calm and thoughtful. You poured the cans of fruit into the bowl, adding the frozen strawberries that you and your brother had picked earlier in the summer. You chopped bananas with your kid knife and mixed everything perfectly. You gathered the plastic containers and carefully spooned the fruit mixture into each bowl, snapping the lids on proudly. You were calm, thoughtful, and 100% focused.

As you stood on your little stool at the counter I moved around behind you, cleaning up the kitchen. We chatted about the day we picked the strawberries. We talked about how long it might take for the fruit salad to freeze. I moved from the kitchen to the laundry room, putting towels in the washer and hanging up a stray set of car keys I had found on the kitchen counter. I was gone maybe 20 seconds. As I turned around I nearly tripped over you. You stood in the hallway, your hands sticky, still holding the spoon you were using to fill the bowls. "Where are you going?", you ask me. "'I'm not going anywhere.", I respond. "I heard the keys.", you say. I explain that I was just hanging them up. You look up at them, eying them suspiciously. "You and I are home alone, kiddo. I can't go anywhere without you!", I remind you.

You stand there, in the hallway, sticky fingers and dripping spoon, until I finish what I am doing and move back into the kitchen. For the next hour, until your daddy comes home, you stick right by my side. And then, at bedtime, I decide not to leave the house, and you scream my name as Daddy carries you up the stairs. My heart breaks, again.

Here I was, starting to relax. Here I was, thinking that you were having a great night. Calm, thoughtful, focused. You were having fun, cooking and spending one on one time with Mommy. But there it was. Your hyper vigilance. There it was, just hanging out there right under the surface, where it must always be. The moments of calm trick me into thinking that you have finally caught on, that you truly understand that we are a family. And maybe you do, but you are still that same scared little boy I held close to my heart in that hot orphanage, day after day.

A few days later I mentioned your hyper vigilant key moment to my husband. "That is so sad.", he said. And it is, sad. But it is also a good reminder to me. A reminder that you are not yet there, not yet ready to be pulled away from me. You get on the school bus happily each morning, following your older brother up the steps and sitting in your assigned seat. But then, on most days, you cause havoc in your kindergarten room. You settle down and go to bed easily if I am not in the house, but if you know I am home you scream and carry on as though you may never see me again. What are you thinking? What goes through your mind when you act out in school? What are you thinking when you are being carried off to bed? I cannot fill you up, despite how much time I give you. I give you all I can, giving until I feel depleted. You are literally stalking me, and there are days that I just want to hide from you. There are days that I actually do hide from you. (shhhh...) But when that happens, I simply need to remember that day in the laundry room, with the keys. I need to remember that look in your eyes when you thought I was leaving the house. I need to remember how you can go from calm and focused to scared in a heart beat. I need to remember that you have two years of hyper vigilance practice on me. I have only been doing this dance with you for three years. You have been doing it your entire life.  I need to remember that even a simple activity like cooking together in the kitchen can end in a reminder of your abandonment fears. If I remember that, then I can get up tomorrow, early early, when you wake me up at the crack of dawn, and I can hug you tight. If I remember that I can take a deep breath the next time you rattle the locked bathroom door, your questions continuing even though I am not even in front of you any longer. If I remember that I can smile as I talk to your principal on the phone, listening to notes from your school day. If I remember that I can take each moment as it comes, which, it seems, is what you do. If I remember that, I can stop and love you where you are. Wherever you are, every day.

Ignore and Celebrate

School started last week. We are now a two kids in school family. We have been a two kids in school practice family for a few years, while our youngest was in preschool. Turns out, just as I had suspected, preschool was not so much a trial run for the real thing. Turns out, the real thing is much, much harder. So we have a two weeks under our belts.  Two weeks of packing two lunches, signing two homework folders, reviewing behavior charts and reminding two boys to put those backpacks away. I swear, between the shoes, the dog and the backpack, I am going to break my ankle.

And while it has been two weeks of school schedules and strict bedtimes and balancing football practice and homework, it has also been a week of utter emotional chaos. People, I have cried every day. Every single school day has brought me to tears. And to cheers, as I work hard to find the good and to celebrate even the tiniest of victories. We are midway through week two of the school year and I am ready to stop.the.rollercoaster. Please. I just want off.

But I can't hop off. I can't just raise the bar that is holding me in, hop out, and run over to the calmer merry go round my oldest son is riding through life. I watch him, with awe and jealousy, as he rides his horse up to the highs and down to the lows. Lows that aren't really all that low and that have a safety net- a floor between his horse and rock bottom. He hangs on to his horse as he travels around his world, going up and down, smiling. Sometimes I get to ride on that fun and peaceful ride with him, and I love it. I know sometimes it may seem tame to him, but I would love to ride the merry go round with him forever, until the day he hops off and runs for that rollercoaster of his own. Sigh.

Parents of kids with special needs have the added burden of educating yet another round of teachers and administrators about their child's specific brand of specialness. A by product of this is something I refer to as the "alphabet algorithm". SPD, RAD, PTSD, FAS... oh my goodness my son has an alphabet soup of diagnosis. You would think that all of those letters would mean that we would know exactly what is going on with my son. But I haven't a clue. It's a huge mathmatical equation. Is this (insert odd behavior here), casued by the RAD? Is it a sensory issue? Is it a flashback induced PTSD problem? Is he just being a typical five year old? Is it the color of the kitchen walls? Does he hate his socks? Does he hate me? Does he hate America? My head is going to explode.

I can't think of my son as an alphabet. He is a boy. He does not like changes to his routine. He does not like to go to bed when the rest of the family is still up. He does like to sing and dance, but only when he is alone with his immediate family. He loves to cook and clean and he is extremely attached to a stuffed dog. When in the right mood he can be funny, sweet, and thoughtful. Not that anyone else gets to see any of that. He has this deep yearning in him that I can't seem to fill. He can't seem to get enough of me, so much so that when I am with him I am torn between intense love and feeling as though I have been kidnapped, Is it love? Is it a need he has that has yet to be filled? Is is a RAD behavior? Is he trying to control me? Ack!

So as we wrap up week two of school I am ready to roll up my sleeves and get to work. Again. And I know this is only the beginning. I am staring down the barrel of 12 plus years of educating new teachers, advocating for my son, restraining myself, and, I hope, occasionally being totally amazed at the kind heartedness of others. I know along the way we will pick up other members of my son's village- a therapist here, a new friend with an understanding mom there. (Yes, I saw my son lick your doorknob. Nope, don't know why. I was hoping you didn't notice that he just jumped off your beautiful sofa and landed in the middle of your living room so hard that your sweet family photo tipped over on the side table over there...)

Near the door of our home that we use most often we have a white board hanging on the wall. This board proudly displays the words "We can do hard things". I have listed things like showing compassion, math, keeping our hands to ourselves. I think there is one more thing to add-  life. I can do this hard thing called life. And so can you. We can advocate. We can let go. We can forget the alphabet soup of diagnosis. We can meet with teachers, state, restate, and then, calmly, state again the needs of our child. We can weigh one school over the other. We can ignore behavior and we can celebrate awesomeness. You and me, we can do hard things.  I am not so sure that I believed this last week, but this week, I get it. I can do this- not alone, of course. My husband, family, church, teachers, friends... God- we've all got this.

So to all you special needs parents out there, the ones who have been fighting for their child for years and the ones, like me, who are just stepping into this world, cheers to you. I am in awe of you. Go on, you amazing people- make it a great school year!

Sharp Sticks at the Breakfast Table

School has started! Oh my goodness, people, can I tell you how excited I am that this summer.is.finally.over. OVER! I know, I know, we had a great time these past three months. We managed to complete nearly every activity on our Summer Bucket List. Swimming, family roadtrip to the beach, biking, hiking, ice cream, fire flies- oh yes, we did it all. My boys went to a NASCAR race and to museums. We definitely made the most of our summer. (Planning, people! It is all about the planning! Stay tuned, our Fall Bucket List is coming soon!)

But in between the ice cream and the swimming were a lot of moments of chaos. Normal, for us. Raising kids can be chaotic for every family. And I swear that raising boys is just louder and dirtier. So raising two boys, one of who is a little RADish, is all chaos, all the time. You get used to it.

But now, at least until the school starts calling with concerns over the RADish, now is MY time. I get my quiet house back. My peaceful work day. My ability to think and to use the bathroom on my own. Heaven, people. Seriously, this is how low I have sunk. I think being able to walk to the bathroom without having to sneak and not having my heart stopped five times a day by a five year old running at my office door in an attempt to break in is heaven. H-E-A-V-E-N.

So today was the first day of school. By the end of last school year my oldest son had regressed to eating sugary cereal and cheese and crackers every morning for breakfast. Getting protein into this kid is not easy. This year, I have planned. I prepared ahead of time. I have searched and searched for interesting, healthy, protein packed breakfasts. I know I won't be able to stave off the Lucky Charms forever, but one day at a time, right?

Today we ate our breakfasts off skewers. That's right, sharp sticks at the breakfast table. Tomorrow? Maybe fire...



This morning's skewers held together strawberries, grapes, waffles, and scrambled eggs. I cooked the eggs in mini muffin tins, in the oven at 350 degrees for 10 minutes. They pop out as cute little scrambled egg muffins, which are super easy to pop on a skewer. Add a little ketchup and syrup for dipping and a great breakfast was had by all!

What did you have for breakfast on your first day back to school?

breakfast success!

 

 

simply "Do the next thing"

Part Three in the "Extended Family Beach Vacation" series. You can read part one here.  And part two here.


Today is Wednesday. We leave on Saturday morning for our big family trip to Florida. You know I am more than a little worried about pretty much every facet of this trip. Actually, I think the word "worried" is an understatement. Let's review the facts:

• We have never been on a trip longer than two days since we became a family of four. That's three years of weekend trips only. Three years of mostly unsuccessful weekend trips.
• Our little RADish thrives on routines. And even then the chaos is lurking right around the corner.
• Both of the boys pretty much have absolutely no ability to entertain themselves in any way.
• I am really really tired of riding in the front seat while my body is twisted around tot he back so that I can hold on to one kid to stop him from hurting the other kid. I am seriously too old for that.
• We have never successfully navigated a night at a hotel as a family of four. Although I have a friend who was just mentioning some sort of "noise violation" she may have received on a recent hotel stay, thanks to her kids, so maybe our overnights haven't been so bad...
• We seem to travel with an entire zoo of stuffed animals. This is not really a problem, I just find it really really annoying.

So we have planned, and then planned again, and then threw out the plan and started over with all the planning. We have thought through every possible scenario. "What if a zombie apocalypse comes and we can't get the youngest on board with running away as fast as we can?"  Oh yeah, we have a plan for that.

Which brings me back to today. It is now Wednesday. We leave on Saturday. My desire to take this trip rises and falls with the moods and behaviors of my youngest son. Earlier in the week? Dreading the trip. Last night I deposited my beloved children into their father's hands while I got my hair done and shopped for beach toys. Alone. So today the dread is lifting. Excitement is starting to build. Maybe we can do this. After all, we have:

• rented a car with three rows, so that the RADish can freak out all he wants without being able to actually touch anyone.
• loaded two iPads with games and movies and thrown out all rules about electronics in the car. these iPads will be turned on before we even leave the driveway.
• also thrown out all rules about eating in the car. snacks, snacks, and more snacks. if he is eating, maybe he won't be screaming.
• purchased large, round, totally dangerous longer lasting suckers. hopefully these will serve a dual purpose- both in keeping mouths quiet and in providing the sucking motion that helps my youngest regain regulation. unfortunately, once he is dis regulated it is very hard to bring him back, and he refuses to take the needed "sensory breaks" to keep his system regulated. I'm hoping to trick him into this with the suckers.
• put a plan in place for bedtime in the hotel, on our way to Florida and back. a cocktail for me in the hotel lobby while I play games with my oldest son and wait for the "he's asleep" text to arrive from my sweet husband.
• thrown out all my planning for fun on the way. I have given up and not purchased little treats to be lovingly handed out at certain points of the trip- 50 miles, when we count 10 red cars... these games, while fun, always end badly and my husband has pleaded with me to not put too much planning into making this trip fun. our new motto?

 "Let's just get through this!"

 

 

 

I am confident that once we get to our destination we will encounter a whole new set of challenges. And we will take it one day, one hour, one minute at a time. We will simply do the next thing. A very good friend of mine recently used that phrase when describing a difficult time in her life. And I agree. We will make memories that will last a lifetime, and my little guy will have so much fun. He will dig in the sand, swim in the ocean, ride on a boat, eat ice cream.... Hopefully spending an entire week with his extended family will allow the love we all have for him to seep into his battered little soul.

 

 

Yesterday I watched my youngest son wind himself up while the dishwasher repairman was in our kitchen. He was hyper active with excitement, jumping around and generally getting in the way. After a few comments from the repairman my momma bear kicked in and I found myself fiercely protecting this child of mine. This same child who drives me to the edge of sanity on a regular basis. This same child who forces me out of the house every single night at bedtime. Who at times rages so hard he lashes out at me, physically. Who, when angry, follows me around the house, purposely trying to upset me so that I turn on him, proving to him that he is right about love and filling the room with the negativity he is so comfortable around. I can cry, scream at my husband, wake up in the middle of the night worrying, leave my bed to join him in his, because while he is sleeping I have the rare opportunity to just "be" with him, without him getting so hyper he pulls away. Yes, I have earned the right to all of these actions and feelings. But no one outside of our small circle has those rights. And especially not a repairman passing through our kitchen.

 

 

Every time I feel these protective feelings kick in I am flooded with peace and the knowledge that I can do this. I can get through today. I can get us all through two days on the road. I can enjoy a week with family on a beautiful beach. I can do it, one day, one hour, one minute at a time. I can just do the next thing. 

 

 



Road Trippin' With The RADish

Part Two in the "Extended Family Beach Vacation" series. You can read part one here.



Tomorrow we will be loading up the car, delivering the puppy to her "hotel", and driving to Pittsburgh for a family wedding. We will be gone just two days, dragging ourselves home Sunday evening. A trial run, so to speak, for our upcoming week long beach vacation.

We have traveled as a family before, on these small weekend trips, and every time a few things go right and a lot of things go wrong. We are slowly putting together our "tool kit" for life on the road with our youngest son. Anxiety, RAD, and sensory issues swim together in a pool of normal five year old boy mischief, which sits in the backseat next to a seven year old who can never turn off his brain and who is, and I quote, "always in need of technology or (his) head hurts!". I ask you, what can go wrong?

We have tried sticker charts and behavior rewards. Charts have been ripped and rewards thrown back in my face. But we must keep trying, right? I am not the one who is operating from a place of fear, so I am the one who must figure this out.

Tomorrow when we hit the road each boy will have a "good times" book, where we, or they, can write or draw pictures of the good stuff. No stickers, no goals, just compliments and praises. My boys are competitive, so this just might work. And if it doesn't, then so be it. If it is ruined in a tantrum I will survive. I am much stronger about this sort of thing than I used to be!

My MZW LOVES all things USA so his good times book should bring a smile to his face!

 

 



Each of us, Daddy and Mommy included, will have a visor clip as well. One thing I have noticed on these long drives is that all of us tend to lose it. We each have our own behaviors and we each have moments that we wish we could get back. And all of us, every single one us, needs to be held accountable. I want my boys to see that I struggle as well, and that I am not above reproach just because I can drive the car or buy wine. (mmm, wine...)

They are not fancy, because they might not last. I'm OK with that!



If behaviors ratchet up the clip is removed. If atonement is made, the clip goes back up. Everyone who has a clip on the visor when the car stops for a break gets a treat. Easy peasy. And visual, something very important for my little RADish.

Normally these types of rewards and consequences do not work for attachment challenged children. And we have seen our share of techniques not working. But my little guy is slowly coming around, and while he still frequently cannot be forward thinking enough to learn from his mistakes, he is starting to respond. Starting. A little glimmer of hope. We hang on to what we can, don't we?

So we are ready. This trip includes a large family wedding, loud reception, lots of car time and an overnight stay in an unfamiliar hotel. All of these could easily set off my youngest, so the Sensory Bag is also packed.

• Sensory brush
• Squishy bumpy light up hand held ball
• Play-Doh with beads buried inside and tweezers
• Essential Oils
• Matchbox cars (because they are quiet, small, and let's face it, fun to drive over well decorated wedding reception tables)
• Chewy necklaces
• Brain Works app for sensory break ideas
• Melatonin (because I am no fool)
• Beyond Consequences book
• Parenting the Hurt Child book

Wish us luck- we are off!

The Extended Family Vacation- part one

This post is the first in a short series on taking our little RADish on an extended family vacation. A two day road trip, a large house full of kids, a dangerous ocean.... what could go wrong?



Next month we are heading to the beach. Me and the boys will be loading up the car and starting out on the longest car trip we have attempted since our youngest joined our family. Both boys have been campaigning heavily to fly, and they might be on to something. But we are going to drive it. A real family vacation, a road trip.

And when we get to the beach, we will find ourselves smack in the middle of my husband's large family. That's right, we are taking our chaos, trauma and behaviors to a large beach house and rolling out the circus for the family. I am seriously considering just packing beach towels and alcohol.

The list of things that we cannot do as a family of trauma has gotten smaller over the past three years. This summer we have gone strawberry picking. My husband took the boys to a loud, hot, crowded NASCAR race. We have been swimming in the crowded pool in our new neighborhood. We have accomplished longer car trips and not lost anyone at large playgrounds. We made it through a cousin's birthday party. We have rolled with the punches too- scrambling to find a full time summer sitter when my little RADish got himself kicked out of daycare and taking lots of deep breaths when behaviors ratchet up. But nothing we have managed to accomplish so far this summer will hold a candle to what we will face come the first week of August.

  The extended family vacation.

 

 

When I tell people that we are heading to the beach, five families, seven kids between the ages of two and eleven, with a high schooler and college kid thrown in to round out the mix, I get a smiling response. "Oh, that will be so much fun!". "What a wonderful opportunity!". And I agree. It should be fun. And it is a nice opportunity, in theory. These well meaning people? They have no idea.

 

After two days on the road we will emerge from the car, toys and books falling out as we open the doors. We will gather the trash- I'm thinking it will mainly be ripped pages of books and broken happy meal toys we will be filling that trash bag with- the garbage of the traumatized. A month of planning and preparing for those two days will still have us dragging ourselves out of the car, two exhausted parents, one cluelessly happy seven year and a sullen five year old with a settle to score.

 

We will then spend the next week in a state of hyper vigilance. While our relatives drink ice tea and spend time making memories, relaxing as their children play, we will be following our youngest son around, working hard to stay one step ahead of him. He will be smiling and happy and we will feel stupid as we keep a watchful eye over absolutely everything he does. We will drag him away from his cousins and his fun before something goes wrong, attempting to offer him sensory breaks, which he will refuse. We will flounder, unsure of our parenting skills on a good day, let alone with so many eyes upon us. We will question- should we let him go back and play? Should we force the break? Eventually my husband and I will let the frustration get the best of us and we will argue.

 

Another time we will forego the sensory break, letting our youngest son continue to play with his cousins. Someone will get hit, or something will get broken. "Boys will be boys", we will hear. "All kids act like that, you should have seen what my son did at his age!".

 

We will spend a lot of time alone, just the four of us, on this trip. It will be great, quality time, fun and maybe, just maybe, a little relaxing. This hiding will come with a price though. Even if it is not happening we will still feel judged. Relatives will try to include us. They will not understand that it is better for our little family to spend some time alone. That we are OK with this. We will feel as though we are letting someone down during most every moment of this trip. Spend too much time with the large group and we may not be doing what is best for our son. Keep him secluded and we may be helping his anxiety, but also appear as though we have something to hide. I am exhausted just thinking about it, and it is still a month away!

 

And then there is the parenting style that we have adopted. So far in this life of ours we have adopted two kids, a puppy, two guinea pigs, a fish or two,  and about a million parenting styles. Parenting a child of trauma with attachment issues  requires a specific set of skills that we are just beginning to learn. Skills that are not in the arsenal of main stream parents. Techniques that find us not punishing as others might think we should. "Why are they letting him get away with that?". Why indeed.

 

 

So why are we going? Why spend a week of precious vacation time, time we need to reserve for doctor's appointments, therapy intensives, self care? With two kids, one with a cleft palate and one with attachment issues, we are booked solid with appointments, all requiring one of us to take time off work. Why drive for two days, amid fighting, while dodging shoes and toys thrown at us from the backseat? Why spend a week in hyper vigilant mode, attempting to anticipate our youngest son's next move? Why take our circus on the road to the beach, adding an ocean of dangerous water to our live circus show?

 

I'll tell you why. Because my oldest son deserves to spend time with his extended family, and he radiates sadness if we don't do things as a family. Because my youngest son loves to play in the sand, and is just beginning to enjoy swimming. Because despite how hard this will be it is a great opportunity to show him, once again, what a family is. How a family feels.  How a family acts. Because I will experience moments of absolute joy as I play in the sand with my son, or as I watch him have a sweet moment with his aunt. Because at the end of the day I hope to be able to tally up more good moments than bad.  Because I am not going to make excuses for my son. I will explain reasons but not give excuses. Because he has a right to share these experiences with his family. Because this is who we are, and there is no reason we can't do this. I might be crazy and over optimistic, but I really think we can do this. Bring on the sun!

 

 

Stay tuned for more posts in the "Extended Family Beach Vacation" series. Topics to include sharing details of our story with family, preparing my RADish for our road trip, and taking essential oils on the road. 

My Dreams Are Pinned to a Shiny Red Bicycle

I am pinning all my hopes and dreams on a small red children's bicycle. OK, that might be a little too dramatic. But it is totally true to say I am pinning a lot of hope onto this shiny new bike. My youngest son's shiny new bike. I have prayed for a breakthrough like this. Yes, I have prayed for the power of a bicycle to come and rescue my son. To some my bike prayers may seem silly. To me, it's just another day.

My youngest son has RAD. Reactive Attachment Disorder. This is the latest in an alphabet soup of diagnosis. ADHD, (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). SPD, (Sensory Processing Disorder). PTSD, (Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome). Possible FAS, (Fetal Alcohol Syndrome). Toss in anxiety and you have an alphabet soup no parent would wish to serve their child. I have come to learn that the diagnosis doesn't matter as much as the treatment. And I have learned that it is not one size fits all when it comes to treatment.

OK, now it's test time. Let's practice that alphabet. The SPD my son displays is a direct result of his FAS and RAD. One of the treatments for this is to teach him to take what we call "sensory breaks". We want him to take these breaks to break the cycle of hyperactivity, brought on by anxiety and PTSD. He doesn't want to take these breaks because he likes the way he feels when hyperactivity sets in. Plus this hyperactivity causes chaos in the household, which keeps him in control, something he is seeking thanks to his RAD. Got it?

The types of activities he needs to complete for these sensory breaks does not always make sense to someone not well versed in how the brain works. Which is me. With my oldest son, if I want him to calm down, I simply tell him to stop whatever activity is winding him up and offer a quiet one, such as an art project, a walk, or a TV show. When I want  my alphabet soup son to calm down I need to offer him activities such as jumping, bouncing, swinging, push ups, and bike riding.  And it usually goes something like this:

Me: "Let's take a sensory break!"
Son: "NO!"

And this goes on for a while. And then goes on some more. He'll try an activity and then discard it 30 seconds later. He doesn't want to change, and he cannot process why this would be good for him. As he winds up tighter and tighter his older brother watches and decides he wants to join in the fun. While he will listen when I tell him to stop, he cannot fully process they "why" part of my request either. And I wind up feeling like the mean mom who never lets her kids have any fun. I can't win, because if I let the fun and hyperactivity continue it will literally take hours for the youngest to wind down. He simply cannot play like other kids. Confused? Me too. Imagine how difficult this is to explain to a 7 year old!

So, back to bike riding. After years of refusing to pedal a bike my youngest has finally joined the party. And we celebrated by getting him his very own bike yesterday. He was beyond thrilled. After trying it out last night he asked if he could ride it some more this morning. (Notice I said he asked. He didn't demand. He didn't just run outside and do it himself. He asked! Progress. Slow, but it is there.)

He likes to ride his bike. Maybe, just maybe, he will occasionally accept this as a sensory break. Maybe he will do this activity for longer than 30 seconds at a time. Maybe he can complete this activity with his older brother without it going south and ending up in hurt feelings and tattling. Maybe I can actually do something else, every once in a while, instead of standing over him administrating a sensory break.

I have learned that there are no quick fixes here. It will take years to bring my youngest son back from the edge of early life trauma. So I celebrate this tiny victory that has been won in the form of a shiny red bicycle. We celebrate the small stuff around here, the every day, the mundane. There is always something worth celebrating- that alphabet soup of diagnosis? They keep our young family on a constant roller coaster of emotions, so we look for the small victories. And today that victory comes on a bike. A shiny, red, big kids bike. And I could not be more proud.

I see you

I see you over there. Yes, there are 30 little five year olds running around the parking lot and 30 adults- moms, grandmothers, dads, all trying to keep their young charges from running past the orange traffic cones meant to corral the safety towners until the gates open. Yes, it is loud, with babies crying, kids laughing, cars trying to park. Yes, I am just as distracted as the other moms, watching my oldest son hop around the parking lot, chatting with the older brothers and sisters of the safety towners. This kid of mine, he knows everyone. I watch him smile and wave to his friends, totally confident and sure of himself. To be honest, he is a little jealous. His little brother's safety town has permanent structures and a great little town to drive around. My youngest son is wrapped around my leg, hiding from the noise and people. Sure, if I encouraged him he would run off with his older brother. He would laugh and hop and race around in circles like the other little ones. I don't encourage this, though, because, unlike the other children waiting in the parking lot he will not be able to calm down when it is time for class to start. In our world there is a time and a place for "free play", and this is not it. I pick up my youngest. He wraps his fingers through my hair and pets my head as he pops his thumb into his mouth. I whisper into his ear.  "I am so proud of you! You are doing great with safety town!" He vacillates between agreeing with me and saying "No, I'm not doing good." We have some self esteem issues to work on with this one.

There is a lot going on, here in this parking lot, but I still see you. I see your son smile at my youngest, the light of recognition in his eyes. I wonder- day care? Pre school? Church? I bend down to my son, questions on my lips, ready to point out his friend and ask where he knows him from. Your son takes a step forward and then I see it. You pull him back. I watch you tell your son "No." "Don't go talk to him."

My oldest appears back by my side at the exact moment that I turn away from you. I heard about you. My sweet husband told me that you had refused to let your son say hi to our youngest the day before, that you acted as though you knew our family from somewhere. My oldest confirms my fears. You do know our family. From church. From daycare. Daycare. Sigh.

I take a breath. I have a choice here. I can be mad. I can tell you how thankful you must be that you have typical, cookie cutter children who never have behavior issues. I can tell you how thankful I am that your children have obviously never suffered at the hands of someone they expected to be able to trust. I could ignore. But this is just the beginning. If we have found ourselves at the same daycare and at the same church, then we very well might find ourselves in the same school class. I know your kids go to our school; your older son was in my oldest son's first grade class. Our kids are friends, and I am not about to allow my oldest son to lose a friend over your narrow mindedness. What happened at that daycare was nothing. A blip on our radar screen that we have already forgotten about. Frankly, it wasn't even the worst behavior we have seen from our sweet boy. Please. You have no idea. My life is busy. Job. Therapy. Doctor's appointments. Kids' activities. Time with my husband. Family fun. House. Managing the household. Errands. Relationships to maintain. I don't have time to educate the world on what can go wrong when babies aren't loved. Or even worse, when babies are starved or abused. I don't have time to educate you. But I know I have to push past all that. My oldest son deserves to have a chance at maintaining his friendship with your oldest son. And my youngest son deserves something too. Understanding.

Yes, this is uncomfortable for me. Yes, I would prefer to not have to step outside of my comfort zone. I want to turn away from you, folding my son into my arms. But I know that this is just the beginning. There will be more moms like you. Moms who need a little education. And I can't run from them all.

No, I can't run. I can use each incident as a teaching opportunity for my boys. As learning opportunities for myself. I can refuse to be narrow minded. I can refuse to allow my oldest to be embarrassed by his little brother. I can refuse to allow my youngest to think he is any less than. I can refuse to hide. This week we are at Safety Town. We will be at Sunday school. We will be at the family wedding. We will be at the bowling alley and the amusement park and the restaurant. We will be at the beach. So yes, I see you. I see your looks and I feel your judgement. I don't care. Bring it on because we are only getting stronger every day.

My Life as a Parent

©Copyright 2014 1 Attachment & Trauma Network (ATN)

Note: This letter was written by members of the Attachment & Trauma Network (ATN) as an example of how to talk about your own personal experiences and share your family’s struggles with people who may want to, but don’t, understand. Feel free to use any parts of this document as you edit this story to make it your own.  NOTE: This letter has been adapted by Beth Wilkison to reflect her journey with her son. The original text can be found  here.

–Julie Beem, Executive Director, ATN (www.attachtrama.org )

 

My Life as a Parent of a Traumatized, Attachment-Disordered Child

I’m giving you this letter because you have expressed an interest in my experience as a parent of a traumatized, attachment-disordered child. It is not a story I relate to you lightly. My child has some very special needs and because of this, so do I. I need people to understand what our family faces, not just judge us as incompetent. It isn’t fair what happened to my child or to me. But it is what we are both facing, and we face it together everyday.

First, I’d like you to know that this letter was not written just by me. Parents from all over the country are using it to tell a uniquely tragic story. This letter isn’t the ranting of one isolated, overwhelmed, and oversensitive adult. I did not "do" this to my child. My child came to me this way. Chances are he would be struggling with these same behaviors and emotions in any family. My child's problems are not the result of poor parenting by me. In fact, parents of traumatized children are some of the most courageous, committed, resourceful, insightful, misunderstood and stressed-out parents around. We are not just bellyachers. We are in fact, front-line troops in the battle for civilization itself. If you think that’s somehow overinflated, consider the statistics that most of today’s prison population was abused and/or neglected and many have attachment-related emotional problems.

So here is what happened—when my child was a little baby, at the time he was most vulnerable, he did not get his basic needs met. Perhaps, he was not picked up when crying, not fed when hungry, left alone for hours, or left with various strangers for days. Perhaps he was beaten, shaken, or otherwise physically or sexually abused. Perhaps he had chronic or unmitigated pain due to medical procedures and had no way of communicating his distress. I might guess at these details of my child’s trauma, but I will never likely know the full truth. Because of this neglect and abuse, my child became traumatized and was convinced that he was going to die. He learned that he could not trust anyone to meet his needs. And every day since, when my child wakes up in the morning, this deep-seated anxiety gets reloaded. In order to survive, he has become unconsciously committed to never, ever being vulnerable again. He uses all of his basic survival intelligence to control an outside world he feels he cannot trust. All his existential energy is focused on keeping people far enough away so he won’t get hurt again, but close enough that they won’t leave him either. Unfortunately, he is never really satisfied with either proximity and is therefore constantly in a “push them away/pull them close” dilemma. As his adoptive parent, I live every day in this no man’s land of damaged intimacy. I’ve been emotionally wounded from the many times I’ve tried to break through my child’s formidable defenses. Those who don’t need to get as close—teachers, relatives, neighbors, etc.—won’t experience the full intensity of these primal defenses. So if you are lucky enough to see him withdraw or witness one of his rages, you are probably getting close—so good for you! But if this does happen, please remember that you are witnessing a child stuck in a desperate fight for survival—he has become once again that scared, traumatized baby, absolutely convinced he has to control you and everything in the world in order to be safe. It can’t get more primal than that.

As his parent, I am dedicated to helping him realize that I am not his enemy. It is that stark, I’m afraid. But not hopeless. My child has made great progress and has come so far.  During these past three years  I have tried many approaches to parenting my special child. The standard, traditional disciplinary approaches used by my parents were obviously tried first and were an instant failure.

His response is more primal, more subconscious, and has little to do with a situation or possessions involved. It has to do with the fear that’s triggered,  the trust that was broken, the chaos he feels. It’s like he is having emotional seizure, as cascading brain chemistry takes him over. He doesn’t choose this – I don’t choose this—it just happens. So our days are often filled with emotional explosions and uneasy calms between the storms. When it does get quiet, I’m nervous about when the next bomb will hit. Each day is filled with anxiety, fear, guilt, and shame for us both. It is like we’re living on an emotional minefield, and the mines keep regenerating, exploding again and again.

What I face daily is, that despite my best efforts to be a loving caregiver, my child’s early developmental trauma has created a discord that is a true paradox. For example, I may try to gently calm my upset child, but this is not experienced as soothing to him. So his trauma is triggered and he may withdraw, shut down or lash out. This causes me to get stressed as my child reacts counter to my intention. Now my stressful reaction starts to feel familiar, even “safe”, to him, so he works (often subconsciously) to expand this, and we descend into deeper and deeper dysfunction and chaos. To my child’s trauma-injured brain, this dysregulated feeling, which feels painful to healthy people, actually feels normal to him. And I’m left feeling stressed, angry, and emotionally spent.

Absolute total consistency (at home and at school) helps tremendously. Parenting traumatized children is nothing like parenting emotionally healthy children. The responses you receive can be very unrewarding and punishing, since moments of closeness and intimacy can be  rare and can trigger a trauma reaction. My beloved special child is often willing to do for others (even complete strangers) what he is not willing to do for me (this is another behavior common with attachment disorder). To be honest, this drives me crazy.

The damage done due to early childhood trauma and not being able to safely attach to a trusted caregiver has left my child with the emotional development of a toddler or infant. But the big difference is that my child is not a toddler. He’s five years old now. Imagine the terrible-twos lasting for years and years, escalating in intensity and effect— suddenly I’m the parent of a 100+ pound, physically coordinated, verbally adept, emotionally trigger-happy baby. This is what I worry about happening. And what I am working so hard to prevent.

Imposing limits isn’t enough. My child must be helped to accept these limits and internalize the self-regulation, self-soothing, and self-control required to do so. Rewards and punishments focus on the outside, observable behaviors, not the internal underlying process that creates these behaviors. At the same time, he does not need us to lower our expectations for either his behavior or his academic performance. What he needs is help in accepting and reacting to these expectations with flexibility and self-control. He needs to restart the developmental process and move beyond an emotional toddler. He needs to move out of this developmental disarray toward a more civilized, balanced inner process.

Our family needs support, education and understanding. We did not expect that this would be our daily reality, and it isn’t easy. Although it is much easier than it was, still, at times,  I may seem stressed, fearful or angry. I am occasionally overwhelmed. I am making significant sacrifices so that my child can rise above the chaos of his trauma and find true hope and healing. We all have amazing abilities to adapt, as adversity can deepen us and perhaps this will be so for my child as he confronts deeply sealed wounds and transgressions. But we must go beyond intellectual definitions of “normal” and “cured” and think of it in another way: Can someone’s affliction, which has shut off various levels of meaning from his life, be mitigated enough to possibly reopen some of those channels? Or put another way, if left alone without special effort, will these kids descend into more and more chaos? Clearly, the answer to both questions is yes. Therefore, the effort and sacrifice I’m making in my life for him, and the help you are now hopefully willing to give me, is of great value. Help me help my child realize the true blessing life can be.

Thank you for reading this.