Category: Life

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If Life Were More Like Video Games

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In the wake of National Video Game Day…

As a mother of an adolescent boy, I must confess I distain video games and virtual realities more than I care for them. The addiction and the violence associated with them is something that deeply concerns me. And the empty void that kids find themselves in when they play is frustrating. However, I also appreciate the art that goes into their creation and the fantastical escape that it can offer (when played in moderation). And the world is certainly moving in that virtual direction, whether we like it or not. Graphics are better than we could have ever imagined. Complex gaming systems and VRs are now readily found in most homes in the U.S. Disney’s newest top rides/experiences around the globe are based on virtual reality over animation. And whilst I do like old fashioned, outdoor play and adventure, if I’m truly honest with myself, I too- the screen-limiting, no-fun Mom, sacrificed quite a few middle of the night hours, in the 90s, trying to beat those pesky levels in Super Mario and Zelda.

So it had me reflecting today…

And I began comparing and marrying components of the video games I once so enjoyed playing, with the harsh realities of the world as I now know it.

And I thought…“What if life was more like video games?”

Despite the very obvious perks of cool suits (or skins as they say in Fortnite), amazing fantasy lands and kick-ass, unearthly abilities… video games come with even more practical advantages over real life… like instructions and an on/off button.

Real life doesn’t come with a manual- our instructions are based solely on who happens to be around us or what info we have access to at the time. None of us get more than one life. And the reset button, despite every best effort we might make, never erases our memory when we just want to start over.

I think of it like this: Birth-toddlerhood is like our pre-game. It’s gazing at the new gift, still in its wrapper and clicking it into the console, before anyone even picks up a controller. It’s that hopeful time, before any real skill is required or sense of defeat is experienced. It’s a place where we can just be. No matter our background, genetic predisposition, or how we came to be, our very existence is widely accepted because we are small and cute and innocent. The world smiles on us and we are embraced with open arms by virtually everyone who passes us by. Babies, like puppies, are loved by all. (And of course, it’s the one phase of our life that we have no memory of… go figure!)

But it doesn’t take long before that cuteness, that baby pudge, wears off and our genetic and environmental influences begin to surface. And at just about that time, we are dropped into our own reality with a pack strapped to our back… to explore, to learn, to conquer, to live… and to be judged. The world who once ogled and coddled us, gives us a swift smack on the back, as our game called “Life” begins.

Once we try out our legs and get a good look around, the first things we look for are instruction and tools. Only in life, there are no instruction boxes that pop up. And it’s not grappling hooks and sling shots that we look for in our packs, but coping skills, emotion management, social awareness, a sense of safety and security, and life skills.

And unlike the predetermined game settings, real life isn’t fair. We don’t all start with the same weapon and powerpack. Some people, because of their background and circumstance, have a lot of tools and they carry a full pack with many options. And others, hold a pack that is nearly empty. From the very beginning of the game, these players, lacking the tips and skills that others were gifted with from the start, feel slower and less inept. Life for them, is harder from the beginning.

But regardless of these disparities, we do all start at the same stage in life. No one gets to skip ahead a level without completing the one before it. Nor does our beginning determine our end. Each person, regardless of their start, will encounter different experiences along their journey- there will be treasures and challenges along everyone’s way. Every level has characters who are willing to help, if you can find them… and every level has a different villain. We all start with an empty score and a full life pack.

What is or isn’t in your pack, similarly, doesn’t seal your fate. Creativity and resourcefulness go a long way over gem stones and cross bows! And even those with no weapons at all, can run and hide in order to survive. But the point of the game isn’t to survive… it’s to win! And let’s be honest, it’s easier to fight a dragon with a sword then it is a toothpick. Those who started with a map, a compass, power bars and new boots are clearly at an advantage over those who have none.

When I look at the faces that walk through my hospitals doors and into the foster system, it is clear who had a full pack and who didn’t. Tackling your demons and conquering your fears, whilst certainly possible for us all, is much easier when you come into life carrying a tool box instead of an eviction notice. Winning at a game is easier to do when someone you know has already done it. Imagine trying to beat a game that no one else has played and no one wrote a manual for. Life is easier to win at when you have another winner to consult with.

I wish more people would realize that.

You know those opaque boxes that pop up above character’s heads in some games? Inside those boxes is typed basic information that the players would find useful as they navigate the game… a sort of character profile box.

What if, in real life, we had such an insight…

If above every person’s head, popped up a profile box with basic facts regarding our background/experiences, tools/weapons, energy level… alongside an image of ourselves- only instead of being pictured in our armor, we were pictured at our start.

How might that change the way we view other people’s worth and productivity?

If you knew someone came into the game with less, would you expect less? If you knew they lacked the tools to tackle their current predicament, might you stop to lend them one of yours? If you knew someone’s energy level was flashing red, would you go in for that last dig, or walk away and let them live? Would you feel as proud of the fortress you had built, knowing you started with an army and they with only a knife?

Would you use that information to eliminate disparity and to promote community? Or would you selfishly use it destroy faster and build bigger?

And what about that youthful image? The one without the armor… the happy, pudgy baby and the sweet, giggly toddler that the world stops to smile upon…

If when you passed by the damaged and aging bodies of our elderly, our homeless, our sick and addicted… you could see first-hand, that they were once young and healthy like you… If behind those sad eyes, you could see their once hopeful face as a child… Would you write them off so quickly? Would seeing them as someone’s “bundle of joy”, someone’s “congratulations,” someone’s baby… before trauma and illness and poor circumstance, before life, had a chance to create its influence, allow you to see them as a human instead of a burden?

How might knowing just a small piece of someone’s puzzle change the perceptions that we make at first glance? Would it create unwanted biases and nudge us to jump to preliminary conclusions? Or would it encourage us to see people from a different perspective and perhaps give them a little more grace?

Would knowing someone’s history, give us the courage to reach into our own tool box and find that patience, compassion, and understanding to meet them where they’re at?

Life isn’t a game. It’s a journey that has a start and a very clear end. It isn’t fair and it isn’t easy. But it also isn’t a void by which we lose our hours. It’s an investment wherein every step and every day matters.

And we don’t get fantastical lands or super-natural powers or convenient little info pop-ups. But we can pretend that we do. Just like we pretended as a child, that the backyard was a jungle or that we could fly…

So too we can pretend…

That everyone we meet is on their last energy bar. That maybe they came into the game empty-handed and that instead of a fight, they’re really just looking for a helping hand.

We can pretend that we’re not really looking to win by ourselves, but to win as a whole.

We can pretend that the thin and dirty face we see, was once a pudgy babe or a silly toddler who has now suffered insurmountable pain and is looking for respite.

We can pretend that a soul’s worth is not dependent on the body’s abilities.

We can pretend that our actions make a difference.

We can pretend that our lives belong not just to ourselves but are players in a much bigger scene and the talents we have are tools to make other lives better.

We can pretend that we are in fact super-hero’s in this life and we can be the treasured helpers hidden in various corners of the game, to offer other players a helping hand so that they might better succeed on their journey. 

We can pretend that this world is in fact fantastical in all it’s varied lands and that there are different lessons to be had in each, if we take the time to explore them.

We can pretend…

And sometimes… just sometimes… when we pretend… we are crazy enough to believe it.

If life were more like video games… 

 

 

 

 

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A Mother’s Fire

 

Barefoot and exhausted, her body ached with every move.

Her heart was apprehensive, though her soul quietly soothed.

Her ancestors’ cloth and leather strings wrapped around her-

Swollen breasts, bloody streaks and a womb empty from labor.

In her arms- tiny and perfect, brown curls and hopeful eyes,

Five tiny fingers clutching the strings, an instinct to stay alive.

 

The little one feared nothing, while her mother feared it all.

Her heart beat faster and faster while she answered the call-

Towards the beating drums, towards the light, and the heat,

Forever moving forward, the mother’s tired, aching feet.

 

Until soon, she approached the flames and there she did pause

The drums quieted, the elders waited and she stood for her cause.

Desperate for answers or a sign of affirmation

She came to the Fire God for a mother’s confirmation

“Tell me I can do this!”, she pled in her mind,

Praying the response from the flames would be kind …

 

“The journey ahead of you is long and hard and the answers I have are few;

But the love you have is stronger than you know, for this life you hold, that is new.”

 

“Promise me god of all the fires, that my baby will always be safe,

For my soul cannot carry the burden of her hurt or the tears that her eyes will chafe.”

 

“That I cannot not promise,” came the voice amongst the flames

“Life is a battle not a series of games.

Assurance lies not in circumstance.

Pull from these flames that flicker and dance,

The strength of the warriors who fought in these fields.

And when the day comes, that her tears flow without yield

And her heart looks to you in panicked hurry,

Call upon it without hesitation- of a pain stricken mother, there’s no greater fury.”

 

“Dear fire gods,

I fear I’ve not got enough strength, to fight what you say might be coming…

My hands are weak, my feet are tired, and my insides are painfully groaning.

How am I to survive this long journey?

I fear of her perfection, I may not be worthy…”

 

“I assure you dear woman, you were chosen by the stars

To mother this child, despite your flaws and your scars.

You are the greatest teacher she will know-

Knowledge, love, and skills, to her you will show.

Don’t be afraid, for tonight you will gain

The fuel that will power you through all of your pain.

Inside of each mother is the strength of the fire, that when summoned will easily burn

every heartache and threat that touches her child, into embers those threats will be turned.”

 

In silence she departed, unsure of her strength, but clutching her babe, knuckles white.

Ne’er would the world know a greater strength, than a mother, for her child, does fight.

 

As she settled back to rest on the floor made of earth,

Her swollen breast eased, as her babe began to nurse.

With one hand she held her newborn; from inside her, the milk and blood flowed.

And with the other, she held her spear, and the fire in her heart glowed.

 

It would be many moons before the battle would come-

When it did, there’d be no chanting or beating of drums;

But that fire that was lit so many nights ago-

That fire still burned, and it wouldn’t let go.

Until she avenged every blade that was thrown

At the babe she once held, a piece of her own.

Fighting for the ultimate success of humanity,

Is the mother whose child is loved to infinity.

 

But that babe no longer held leather ties,

But a spear of her own, that through the air did fly.

And side by side, they battled the beasts

That on womens’ hearts, set prey to feast.

And soon the old mother came to understand,

That a spark from the fire, on her offspring did land.

 

And when the day would come, that her daughter had her own,

A resurgence of fire would encircle her throne.

No man or beast would ever take her down

or tarnish the brilliance of Woman’s great crown.

 

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The Trials and Tribulations of Parenting: Learning not to minimize our teenager’s grief

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A couple of months ago, I had an experience, like many parents of teenagers (girls, especially), wherein my teen had a meltdown when the plans that she had concocted at the last minute would not be coming to fruition, due to, shall we say, parental factors.

In other words, despite her “hours of planning”, unbeknownst to us and her best of intentions to make it work, my husband and I, and the other parents said, “Not this time.” Thus, last minute plans led to last minute disappointment. Combine that, with her developmental stage and hormones… and holy moly… WWIII broke out in our household.

All morning she cried and all afternoon, she sulked. When I tried to talk to her, arguing ensued. That resulted in my feeling as though she was being ridiculous and entitled; and it left her, feeling completely frustrated and unheard.

It went something like this:

Daughter: “Mom, I haven’t done anything my entire first week and a half of summer.”

Me: “Yes you have, one day you …. and another day you….”

Daughter: “Two days, Mom!” That’s it! Two days!”

Me: “Well at least you got two … Seriously! It’s been 10 days!”

And then I continued to explain and justify why our decision to say “No” was reasonable,  and why her behavior was out of line. She stormed off again, slamming yet another door.

Then came threats from me and more ineffective communication. And I felt, yet again… that I was failing at this parenting thing.

Was she being overly dramatic and entitled? Yep!

Did I handle things the best way? Nope!

 

While I stewed about how long this was going to drag on and how to resolve this… I remembered a grief class that I had taught just a few days prior.

I teach medical staff who are caring for newly bereaved parents/family how to understand grief and how best to care for families who are being faced with the horrifying reality that their pregnancy will not have the happy ending that they had hoped for. In that presentation is a section of :”What to say” and “What not to say…”. And at the top of the “What not to say” list is anything that leads with “At least you…”-  because odds are, whatever will follow is a statement that minimizes their grief.

And I instantly realized, while on a magnanimously smaller scale, despite my feeling justified and rational in my conclusions, I too had minimized my child’s grief. Not only were our emotional needs not being met during this feud, we were no closer to reaching a resolution to our problem, either. And by yelling and arguing back, I was failing at providing her good instruction and demonstrating proper coping skills for how to handle her disappointment and resolve this problem in the future.

So I started by breaking things down:

Her complaint (minus the teenage drama and hormones):  “My plans were cancelled today. And I haven’t done as much as I would’ve liked to, thus far this summer.”

With this new viewpoint in mind, I completely restructured my communication with her. I went back to her, yet again. But this time, instead of telling her she was wrong, I said:

“I hear that you are disappointed that your plans were cancelled today. And I hear that you are frustrated that you haven’t done more this summer.” For once, she didn’t lash right back… so I continued. “I want to first remind you, that this is what you wanted to do initially- you asked to be able to ‘just veg out and not do a thing’, and I understand that that has changed now and you are feeling trapped.”

The high energy and defiant personality I’d been battling all day… softened and quieted… she was being heard and with that acknowledgement, she was ready to receive more input.

“So, fix it.” I said. “Go get the agenda book I bought you for school, and start filling it in. Figure out what you want to do and when. You can look at our family calendar and add in the things we already scheduled and then see what else it is that you want to do. Look up some recipes that you want to make, think about who you want to see and where you’d like to go- and I will do what I can to make those plans happen for you. But I need to know in advance. When you make last-minute plans, that require the help of other people, it is disrespectful to those people’s plans and lives. You can’t expect other people to drop everything and accommodate you without adequate notice. That is how you change what you don’t like, not yelling at people and disrespecting them-that’s never going to work out for you. And remember, it is always my job to keep you safe and make decisions that are in your best interest.”

That conversation was a game-changer.

Instead of shutting her down… I acknowledged her feelings.

Instead of arguing the accuracy and validity of her point, I offered her a solution.

Instead of copying her ineffective coping mechanisms, I offered her effective ones.

And none of that required that I waver on my expectations or renege on my standards as a parent.

And she really did hear me.

She changed her attitude, went and got her agenda, and filled it in. And we kept up our end of the bargain in doing our best to make those things happen. We shopped for her recipe-grocery items and added her plans to our calendars where we could. Within days her boyfriend was over the house and they were cooking dinner for us all.

It truly was a win-win. Even if it took me a few tries to get it right.

Parenting was one of, if not my greatest life goals. I wanted to be a Mom more than just about anything. And I really wanted to do it well. Great goals aren’t achieved overnight or without a ton of hard work. And being a parent is no different. You wouldn’t expect to hike Mount Everest without training and encountering hardships along the way. You wouldn’t expect to land a dream job as a trained professional without learned mastery and repeated failed attempts. So why do we expect any different when we become parents?

That afternoon, I failed several times before I got it right. And I’ll fail again, I’m sure. Unlike trained professionals, there are no textbooks or manuals customized for your particular child and their particular life stage. But if you keep trying… if you seek inspiration in the world around you… and if you aim to validate your children as the living, feeling, individuals that they are… you’ll be alright.

Hang in there! This parenting thing sure is one hell of a ride… and teenagers are the ultimate rollercoaster! But a few loopty loops and a few warranted screams are survivable, if there’s a safe station and loving arms to return to when it’s over.

 

 

 

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“It won’t always be like this…” Advice to the Mother of Small Children… From the Mother of a Teen

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I often times see on Social Media, a sort of competition between the mothers of toddlers and the mothers of teens… a sort of “Oh you think You have it bad!?” comedic banter. And truly, in order to survive parenthood, you must have a sense of humor. But I also recognize that there can be a bit of back-handedness hidden in comments like “Enjoy this time while you have it…” or “You’re gonna miss these days… ,” when they are being said to a parent who is at their breaking point. While on some level, these comments are very true, and I’m sure, I myself, have been guilty of saying them in the past… I also understand they are equally unhelpful when said at the wrong time.

I am not yet done my journey and I won’t pretend to have all the answers… but as a parent who has survived infancy and toddlerhood x2 and a nurse and a foster parent who has learned and observed… here’s what I have surmised:

Those days that you have while your little one can still fit in your arms, while they still look up to you, while they still think you wear a cape most days… Those days are in fact precious. And I do think we need those reminders sometimes- so as not to lose sight of our gifts or take those precious days for granted. The day will come when you find yourself longing for another chance to hold those tiny pudgy fingers and the little lump that crawls into your lap and falls asleep, to once again hear the sweet, unrestrained voice that says “I love you Momma” and “You’re beautiful” with ease and honesty. And that first birthday or Mother’s Day that doesn’t start with a hand print craft and a sloppy kiss, won’t go unnoticed or un-mourned. Life will likely never be this beautifully simple again.

But those days of raising tiny humans, whilst precious, are also hard. The days and hours are long and exhausting. And the love they give you willingly is met equally by selfish demands.

I remember.

While I do miss the days my children openly and lovingly adored me… Attending to their every physical, intellectual and emotional need, was exhausting. The non-stop questions, the non-stopping touching… both beautiful signs of their growing, inquisitive minds and their desire to feel safe and loved by their Momma, wore me out and left me over-stimulated on a daily basis.

I was never as tired. My house was never as messy. And chores and errands were never as difficult as when my children were young.

I now have a 12 and a 15-year-old.

And while I am a bit less tired now because I am able to physically lie in my bed for longer periods of time… and it has been years since I’ve been awoken by “Mommy I peed the bed.” or “Mommy, I threw up.” or “Can I sleep in here?… I had a nightmare.”, I now more often lie awake and lose sleep with worry. Adolescence is a time of a painstaking push for independence. Decisions are often made impulsively and recklessly. Attitudes are typically selfish in nature. And this developmental stage directly precedes adulthood, thus, the consequences for their actions often reflect that. I am grateful for the opportunity to sleep more but I must admit that my night-time anxiety is one I never knew before.

My advice to you, sleep when you can. Sleep when the babies sleep. I know you want to knock out that project or mindlessly scroll through social media in the short window that you have to yourself, but if you are behind in sleep, then catch up. Sleep is the most restorative function next to eating. And if you are sleep deprived, every other aspect of your life will be affected. You will likely find that when you do get sleep, your awake time is much more functional too. These exhausting days don’t last forever. The day will come when projects and housework will get easier. What you didn’t get to today, will still be there tomorrow. Sleep when you can.

Speaking of trying to get things done… one of the things I don’t think anyone prepares you for as a new parent, is how hard it is to run a simple errand. Just going to the store to grab a few things for dinner, when you have an infant and a toddler, is a huge-freaking ordeal. There’s getting them all ready, packing the diaper bag, getting them into their car seats… Then, getting them out of their seats and into the cart without one of them running off, and at that point… you haven’t even made it into the store. Long gone are the days when you could just slip on your shoes and run out for a gallon of milk. You’re exhausted before you even start shopping.

And then, there’s the trials and tribulations of trying to shop with them…

I remember one such shopping trip: As if the “Stay with me, please…” and “Yuck, don’t put that in your mouth!” and “No, we’re not buying that!” and “Stop putting things in the cart!” weren’t enough…. In the middle of my shopping trip, my infant-in-arms began throwing up. Then, while I stood in the middle of the grocery aisle, with vomit running down my shirt and splattering all over the floor, my toddler dropped the cap to her Chapstick- which conveniently rolled under the shelving unit and became irretrievable. And as he continued to vomit all down the front of me, she screamed about the cap that she lost. So, instead of resupplying my empty shelves at home, I left a full cart of groceries in the middle of the store. Covered in vomit, holding my sick baby, I dragged my irrational and screaming toddler out of store. And then I cried- because I didn’t know what we were going to eat that night for dinner.

My advice to you… try to time your errands when you have the help of your partner or a Mom friend. And when that’s not feasible, I hear those grocery store delivery services are a god-send! I’d check them out if you haven’t already. I know I certainly could have used it back then. Likely, it’s not a service you’ll use forever. I don’t need it now. And I love that I can leave my relatively self-sufficient children at home or at school and go shopping alone. But I do remember, what an unusual treat that was, just a few short years ago. Running errands won’t always be this hard. Hang in there!

Of course your grocery bill won’t be this low either. With growing teens and tweens, I miss the days that I could feed them for pennies. I miss being able to control what goes in their lunches. (My highschooler routinely eats from the vending machines at school using her babysitting money and it makes me nauseous). And sometimes with everyone’s crazy schedules now, we aren’t always at home together for dinner… and I miss their chubby faces at the table. Though I don’t miss them throwing food on the floor or having to poop the second I sat down with my plate.

Speaking of food, don’t bother making your own “Step 1” baby food- it’s not worth the effort to make food that pure and that thin. Build the prepared baby food into your budget- but only for a month or two. Once they can start tolerating some texture in their food, throw whatever you’re making for dinner in the blender and Voila! You’ll save money and create a child with a decent food palate. Studies show that eating a wide variety of foods is more important to the toddler diet than eating a large amount of food. So don’t stress if they only take a few bites. And keep trying, even when they refuse. Picky eaters are annoying no matter what age they are! Start them early by exposing them to a wide variety of foods.

And stop carrying the household work load alone! Give your children chores. Even toddlers can do simple tasks, like unloading the dishwasher and picking up their toys. And I started having them making their own lunches in Kindergarten (with a pictured diagram of what protein, veggies and a snack entailed). Yes, it is more work initially, to supervise them and go behind them, but it will pay off! My 7 year old foster child knew how to vacuum, cook and clean floors when he came to us. (… I thought I was doing good with “Pick up your toys” and “Put your plate in the sink.”) Teenagers should be doing their own laundry, learning to cook and sharing the kitchen clean-up. Those are life skills that they will soon need! You do them no favors by enabling them. Sharing the load leads to less frustration on your part and promotes teamwork and independence. My fifteen-year-old loves showing off her simple cooking skills with her friends- (most of whom can’t even fry an egg). Trust me, they WILL thank you later.

Sometimes though, it’s not just the chores that feel so cumbersome, it’s the constant longing for touch and attention that wears a new mom out. One of my children had very high physical touch needs. All day they wanted to be next to me or on top of me. They had no lovey or blankie or self soothing mechanisms, they just wanted to touch me all the time. And I remember that while my husband’s physical affection for me was one of the things that I fell madly in love with, during that time, I didn’t even want him to touch me. By the end of the day, I was so over-stimulated. Sex was a chore.

I do miss the daily hugs and snuggles. I did love nursing my babies and sleeping with them in a quiet lump on my chest… and now I love having my body back. And I love sex again… though it’s a little tricky now with teenagers who don’t want to go to bed and come downstairs for midnight snacks.

My advice to you, when that tiny body is clinging to your leg as you try to cook dinner and you want to scream “Get off of me!”- Stop for just a second, squat down and hug them. Tell them that you love them very much and enjoy that tiny squeeze. Sometimes that’s all they want. And then tell yourself that this is only temporary… and if you have to… go hide in the bathroom.

While toddlers truly are tiny, irrational beings that often drive us to our wits end, teenagers are simply bigger versions. Their tantrums and selfish demands are infuriating! Add that on to your ever, over-flowing plate of chores and challenges, and it can be enough to make you lose your mind! I know!

My advice to you- no matter how irrational or volatile they are, don’t spank them. I did, and I regret it. Spanking is easier. People say that our kids are entitled and spoiled brats now because people no longer beat them… not true. They’re spoiled and entitled because we stopped spanking and replaced it with little-to-no disciplinary action. Effective parenting is hard! It requires self-control and follow-through. It is easier to lose it and give their behind a couple good wacks than it is to remain calm and make them do an extra chore or take away their screens, toy or cookie. But it does yield better results. You will become a better person for it. And it’s great practice for the teenage years. You can’t beat a 17 year old who’s bigger than you… set your standards and practice these parenting techniques now while they, like their mistakes, are still small and easily managed. And treasure the fact that they still come back for a forgiving hug.

As the mother of a teen, the tantrums and the melt-downs are fewer now, but the consequences of those emotional breaks, the problems and the worries are much bigger. Remind yourself that their worries of which pair of shoes to wear and how many m&ms they’ve eaten today are very tiny choices in the scope of life. Allow them some autonomy and don’t get yourself all razed-up when they wear, say, or do the wrong thing. Take a moment to teach them, but don’t let their emotions escalate you as an adult.

And listen to them, teach them that their words and their feelings matter. Young children who feel heard by their parents will grow into teens who feel safe to confide in their parents. And teens who confide in their parents make less deadly mistakes. Their thoughts and opinions don’t have to change your decisions, but you can at least show them that you are willing to hear them. A foundation of respect, honesty, structure and discipline is essential to a healthy family dynamic. But don’t lose perspective either, save the big fights for when they truly matter.

Sometimes I think we intrinsically know which fights are worth fighting but we feel pressured by others to make a certain impression. And sometimes, the people who pressure us the most are the people who raised us. “You’re gonna let her wear that out of the house?”, “Don’t you think he’s a little young for that?”, or “Oh I didn’t let you guys have that …”, are judgmental statements that often leave us questioning our own parental decisions. But guess what? Our parents weren’t perfect! They made mistakes. Trust your own judgement. Don’t allow yourself to be bullied and don’t copy the same mistakes under the guise of- “That’s how I was raised.” Each generation has the opportunity to learn from the previous generation’s mistakes and successes- so learn, and then make your own decisions about what is best for you and your family.

While your parents do have plenty of wisdom to utilize, they might not always be the best source of advice for child rearing because they raised their children in a very different time. I find, I oftentimes get my best advice from friends and family who are not so far removed from raising children. The people that I see actively managing their life and their children in an admirable way, in the same culture that I’m trying to raise my kids in, are the people I look to forge relationships with. And those relationships have proved essential to my surviving life with children.

Friends give you breaks. You need breaks. Once you’ve built those trusting relationships with one another, take turns watching each other’s children so that the other one can get an errand or a nap in. Or better yet, schedule a wine date and leave all the kids with someone’s spouse so that you can get some uninterrupted, adult conversation in. We have to remember that we have an identity outside of being a parent. You and your child both will enjoy each other more when you have space from one another. Not to mention our children need to learn how to function in our absence. You’ll all be better for it… trust me! Even the spouse who’s watching the five kids… they’ll develop a new found appreciation for what you do on the regular. And when you come home after a few glasses of wine, sex might not be such a “chore” that night (*wink).

And lastly, my advice for the best way to meet said friends…

Get out of the house! Take your children to go play at the local park or elementary school playground. Church works too, if you’re a churchy person. They are all great places to watch other parents parenting their children and you’ll be able to see who you want to invest the time of building a friendship with, and who you want to lose the phone number of, (LOL). When you stay local, you’ll meet parents who likely live in your neighborhood and may even be assigned to the same schools as your children. This sets you up for the possibility of an ongoing relationship, if you so choose. Not to mention, by being outside, the kids won’t be messing up the house. You’ll all get some vitamin D, which everyone is deficient in (and that deficiency causes increased tiredness, fyi). And with all the evidence that screens are killing us… you’ll give your children a break from technology and the opportunity for wholesome, creative play and exercise.

And then… when they’re teens… you’ll be a little less tired, have cool friends to hang out with, and kids who (hopefully) have a decent food pallet, a few life skills, will talk to you, could potentially be able to handle not having a screen for a few hours and tolerate being outdoors… 

The day will come when what felt like an eternity ahead of you, are now the days behind you. And you’ll look back and say, of the greatest chore you were ever given, “I hope I did it good enough.”

Momma, it won’t always be like this.

Forgive yourself. Love yourself. Allow yourself.

Find Beauty where you are right now. And know that nothing lasts forever… even this.

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Finding Beauty in the Storms

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When I was a small child, I spent a fair amount of time in my grandparents’ residence, especially during summers it seemed. There, I learned about gardening, and how to make “Mimi’s iced tea,” and the freedom of running through the sprinkler in your underwear on a hot day. We ate homemade popsicles and sour grapes and ran around with our cousins until we collapsed on the cool ceramic floor.

The days were relaxed and easy and full of sunshine.

But sometimes, as summer afternoons seem to produce, a storm would roll through. And as the skies would darken, we’d run into the house to take shelter. You’d think that as young as we were, we’d be frightened by the storm. But Mimi would express her gratitude that the flowers and the plants were getting “a nice drink of water”. And when the thunder and the lightening would begin, and a thunderous clap would shake the house, my grandmother would shout, “Home Run!”. Yelling as loud as the thunder itself, her exclamation never gave us the opportunity to fear the startle that the thunder clap produced. “The angels are playing baseball” she’d tell us- likely her monotheistic version of Zeus and his thunderbolts, to ease our tiny nerves. She’d even call out their names “Nice one Gabriel! Whooohooo Michael is up to bat!” We were too busy imagining a celestial ballgame via my Mimi, the sports announcer, to fear the storm that was passing overhead.

Maybe that’s where it started.

Or maybe it was my father, scooping us up in his arms and running us outside, to watch under the shelter of our tiny porch, the “light show” of purple and white lightening bolts ricocheting across the dark skies. “Ooh! Ah! Look at that one!”, he’d comment on the weather phenomenon as if it were a fireworks display.

“You don’t think it’s scary Daddy?” A natural angst ran through our youthful veins as we stood outside, just out of the elements, in a powerful storm. “I think it’s beautiful” he’d say. And under his protective arms, our anxieties turned to excitement as we searched the sky for the glorious electrical surprises.

Maybe that’s when I learned to find beauty in the storms.

 

Those are amongst some of my earliest memories, before I was even school-age.

I feel like we tend to hold a special place for our early-childhood memories. The ones we have before reason and intuition and the awareness of life’s challenges become blaringly apparent to us. Memories, like secrets, tucked away in a treasure box and kept for safe keeping before the storms of life start rolling in.

And lord knows, the storms would be many.

Poverty, addiction, abuse, illness, divorce and death…like hurricanes raging through my life…with them came damage. That damage took years to repair and brought with it, the reflexive action to board myself up and hide; like a shore-side resident battening down the hatches before the storm hits. Only, I hid emotionally, not physically and the boards were nailed to my heart, not my home. Despite my early childhood lessons, I had forgotten how to look for beauty. I learned to be both afraid and numb at the same time. Negativity disguised as “realistic expectations” invaded my every view of the world; and I came to expect tragedy everywhere.

Every life encounters storms, some more than others. But no one is immune. Heartache and hard work, misfortune and tragedy rain down on everyone sometimes, regardless of your background and life choices. It’s what you do when those storms come and what lessons you choose to take away with you, that begins to define your character.

 

It took me years to see the beauty in my storms.

The beauty in poverty that is the drive to work hard and learned resourcefulness.

The beauty in pain that is perspective and an understanding of both humanity’s tragic weakness and tremendous strength.

The beauty in broken promises that is the opportunity to mend and then grow.

The beauty in ends, which yield new beginnings.

 

Beating rains both tear-down fragile plants and soften hard grounds.

Floods, whilst destructive, yield fertile soil if you take the opportunity to plant seeds in it.

Dark skies cool the air and make us appreciate clear ones even more.

And after the storm, despite the damage and debris, there is always a quiet and a sense of new beginning as the birds and small creatures venture back out of their nests. And small children find puddles to jump in.

 

I remember the first time my children witnessed neighborhood kids running and screaming when a thunderstorm rolled in. They watched with puzzled expressions, the cartoon-like antics of the panic-stricken children collecting their toys and scrambling inside. And they asked me, “Why are they acting like that?”

“Because some people are afraid of storms.” I said. I explained how storms can bring strong winds and how lightening can hurt you, and that we must find a safe place and exercise caution. “Or, maybe it’s the loud thunder that they don’t like,” I said…

“But my grandmother and your Pops used to say …” and I picked them up and took them to the front window, to sit on my lap and shout “Home Run!” while we watched the “light show”.

As a girl, (and still now), I prayed that every day be a sunny day. Under blue skies and puffy white clouds, I rolled in the green grass, hunted for bugs and hidden treasures and soaked in the warmth of the sun’s great rays. My soul remains invigorated by the energy that a warm summer day produces. And it is calmed by its quiet nights when crickets and peepers lull me to sleep.

Never do I look to the skies and ask for a storm to come. Never would I choose dark clouds over cotton-ball-white ones or beating rain over clear skies.

But when the storms do roll in, because they inevitably, always will… I am grateful for a child-like grandmother and a brave and understanding father, who taught me to find beauty in the storms.

 

 

 

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The World is your Canvas: A Letter to a Graduate

mortar-board-2-1551255-639x852You made it! And I couldn’t be prouder of you! The work that you’ve done, the lessons you’ve learned, the character you’ve built, were not feats attained overnight. You worked for every one of them. Both your mistakes and your achievements carry great value and contributed to your success today. Because of both of them, you are smarter, wiser and stronger than when you first began this journey.

And still, your journey is far from over. This is not an era that has ended but a new chapter that is beginning – a new chapter that will be filled with its own challenges, hardships and celebrations.

Honor your moments of hardship and challenge for that is when growth and learning is best achieved; and revel in your moments of ease, you deserve them!

It took Michelangelo 4 years to paint the Sistine Chapel… a lengthy project for one ceiling. And one he was not excited about taking on initially. The technique he used, Fresco, was a new art to him. The work was back-breaking, literally. He encountered multiple set backs in the process. And sometimes, he had to ask for help. Anyone who has been to the chapel can tell you that its exterior is simple and unassuming, not the venue you’d expect to hold world-famous art for almost 500 years.

Don’t be fooled by unassuming people, many of the world’s most brilliant minds are housed in the simplest of appearances. Have humility.

Not every project you take on will be exciting or one you feel perfectly suited for, take it anyway. Growth comes with challenge. And new experiences sometimes yield surprising results. Take a chance.

Greatness is not achieved by mediocrity. Don’t ever stop working hard.

Complacency leads to the death of the spirit. Don’t ever stop learning.

And never mind, the physical aches and pains that come with old age and hard work- It’s the strength of the spirit that moves mountains.

 

The world’s greatest accomplishments are a balanced combination of talent, hard work and opportunity: Uncover your talents, search for opportunity, keep trying- even when you fail and don’t be afraid to ask for help.

 

Like a properly balanced palette, there is a use for every hue. Highlights and shadows require different colors and placements but are equally important in a piece of art. Every part of you has a purpose. Both the good and the bad, the light and the dark, can be used to better this world.

Use the goodness to achieve more goodness, the world needs it!

And use the bad to understand and to improve yourself and to sympathize with the shortcomings of others. But do not let those shortcomings or other people define you.

Be yourself and give the world someone to reckon with. You are Amazing!

Have respect for yourself and for others. And uphold honor in all the things you do. Power and intellect mean nothing if your morality is lost. Don’t be afraid to stand up for what is right, even in the face of adversity. Don’t be afraid to be alone, if being alone means standing with dignity.

The world is your canvas and your palette is endless, paint the hell out of it!

And don’t stop painting, don’t stop achieving, don’t stop reaching, until incurable physical fragility makes it impossible to pick up the brush.

Then, and only then, will you be lowered from your platform, to lie back and look up at the immense and beautiful art you’ve created and appreciate it for all of its complexity. And you’ll realize it was all worth it.

Your vision is your own…go pick up a brush and make it happen!

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This is an amended post first published on 6/17/18.

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Water, Leaves, and Stones… a reflection on the ripple effects of both tragedy and goodness as witnessed by this nurse, teacher, grief worker and foster parent.

 

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There is an image that is used by many perinatal bereavement programs which is that of a green leaf floating on the surface of still water. It is an image that I see every time I do grief work and one that is taped to the hospital room doors of families who are experiencing tragedy. And when I do grief education, I take a minute to discuss that image and the symbolism that it represents. There are quite a few components to that image that hold significance; but the one component, in particular, that always stands out to me, are the subtle water ripples around the leaf. While we focus the majority of grief education on the immediate family, (and we should) … I sometimes think we neglect to mention the many ripple effects that grief has on the world around us. And while the leaf is a perfect choice for this image- as it represents premature loss; sometimes the idea of a cold, hard stone works better for me.

When a leaf first falls or a stone is tossed into a still pond, the break in the surface is a sudden and loud disruption. Those closest to the disruption, to the loss, feel its effects the strongest and the fastest. They are the ones standing at the edges of the hole that is created when the stone breaks through the water’s surface.

From that hole, from that initial impact, the effects continue to spread outward, from one circle to the next, ending in a seemingly remote place, the edges of the shoreline. There, far away from the inner circle, someone reads a story that was inspired by that person’s life or they receive the goods distributed by the charity that was created in that person’s name. Even subtler and further away still, are the ideas and the developing culture that is perpetuated by the feelings and ideas of the outer circles, like whispers into the ears of society telling us how we should feel or who/what was to blame. While these ripples are much quieter and much subtler than those closest to the loss, they are very much felt and very much have an effect on the world around us.

I have been touched by two types of loss that share similar ideas and feelings by society: Perinatal Loss (which encompasses any pregnancy loss or death of an infant close in timing to its birth-miscarriage, stillbirth, severe prematurity, genetic conditions or birth defects non-compatible with life and neonatal death) and Death by Suicide. Both types of death are largely considered “taboo” by society. When something becomes “taboo” it doesn’t occur with less frequency; in fact, both types of loss are much more tragically common than anyone realizes. But its occurrence is often ignored or mention of it avoided- either because one is afraid of “catching” it or because one is uncomfortable discussing it. And uneducated, often negative ideas and assumptions are often made.

While tragedy, I find, is not contagious, feelings of discomfort and negativity often are. This perpetuation of negativity/discomfort regarding both suicide and infant and fetal death leads to a lack of acknowledgment of the death by society and ultimately, isolation and complicated grief of those closest to the loss. Loneliness is an awful awful feeling. And then guilt and blame, the demonic twins of tragedy rear their ugly heads and they too feed into the tone of those quiet circles that move outward from the stone. Tones that encourage us to look away, to avoid, to think they must have done something wrong or missed something. Tones that allow us to feel that it only happens to them, not us.

Without even realizing it, the negative energy that is fed into those ripples perpetuates pain and it leads to the under-serving of those affected the greatest by that loss.

Through my journey as a bereaved loved one and my years of public service, I have come to realize that we all play some part in the circles of change.

And not all leaves and stones represent death.

As a mother, a teacher and a nurse, I know the effects that my words and actions have on my children, students, and patients. We all do. Because regardless of our backgrounds, we can all recall a time when we were taught, when we were raised and when we were ill or injured. And we can all recall how those various experiences and the people around us, made us feel- be it good or bad. Regardless of how many years tick by, we can still remember those people who helped to build us up and those who tore us down. And while a significant loss is known to make a strong and definite impact on our development of self, oftentimes it’s the seemingly smaller moments in life that too, become life-altering ones: The words of a mentor, the patience or annoyance of a teacher, the attention or dismissal of a caregiver, the confidence or chastisement of a parent… in the tiniest moments of life can cause large circles of influence on the human spirit.

In the few short months that my family and I have begun the journey of fostering, we have witnessed the most extraordinary effects on people that we could have never predicted. The stone of a child entering the foster system sent immediate ripple effects into the pool of our lives and our home. And in spite of some seemingly inevitable tones of judgment and isolation by people who don’t understand; we have seen more goodness, more understanding, more compassion, working their way into our circles, than we could have ever predicted.

We entered this journey to help children. Through direct affirmation, we can see children who have been immersed in ignorance and anger, now learning love because of our involvement. It is more beautiful and more affirming than we could have ever imagined. And they have changed us as much as we have changed them.

We are better people because we elected to stand by the edge and help catch that stone.

But as beautiful as that is, that’s not what surprised us the most. What has surprised us the most, are the effects that we’ve witnessed rippling further outwards from our experience:

The people who took no previous interest in foster care or adoption, who are now researching the requirements.

The people who previously only worked to save babies, who are now taking a step to save older children too.

The people who in their minds, so easily tossed foster children into the “Damaged” bin, who are now seeing the faces that we love with sweet endearment and compassion.

The parents, not of foster-children, but the parents of children who ‘don’t quite make the mark’ for removal- the parents who have not made their children a priority, who have sparked a sudden interest to do better and to be more present in the lives they created.

The workers collecting a paycheck, in an overwhelmed and inundated system, who have seen love and progress and healing and have been reminded that despite the burn-out and the endless cases, it is tiny human hearts that are on the line. And they have softened and bent in beautiful ways.

And much further away, with no credit to us at all… are the messages in recent movies (like “Instant Family” and “Shazam”) that feature top stars and foster kids presented in a loving manner; even a Sesame Street puppet, who shares perspective and teaches inclusion.

Because while negatively spreads, so does goodness. Good energy begets good energy and waves of change happen when we initiate it.

Though early in our journey, we have been shown that good people can make mistakes and sometimes it’s not our job to rescue them, as much as it is to assist and teach them. We would’ve adopted our first three foster children in a second… but we learned that our efforts were better served in teaching their parents and other foster parents how to love and support by example. A similar message to that of grief support… where we too can’t rescue the bereaved, but we can guide and support and love them.

And it doesn’t take a movie star or a PhD to do that.

I am no super-human. I was raised below the poverty line and I hold college debt that I will take into retirement. I am married to an immigrant and together we make a very middle-class income. We live in a small 3 bedroom, 1 1/2 bath home that faces the side of a gas station, just outside the lines of one of the murder capitals of the world. My children have learning differences and therapists. And when I’m not around said children, I love to curse….and I also love wine. But together, we play and we talk and we love one another endlessly… and despite our very small space and limited abilities, we are changing are the fucking world! Not on a Mother Theresa level, not on a Noble Peace Prize level… but on an everyday tragedy, everyday joyous celebration, every day pond-skipping-stones level.

The nurse in me is forever aware that we never know when our card is up.

The foster mom knows no one is immune.

The teacher knows everyone matters.

And the mother in me won’t let me quit.

And so the ridiculous ven diagram that is my life evolves and the circles just keep coming from my ever-evolving pond.

It is so easy to see and perpetuate the bad. The bad is real and it hurts and mustn’t be easily dismissed. We must acknowledge it and be patient and work through it. And we must accept that that pain will forever change us.

But we can’t dismiss the good either. It too must be acknowledged and then fed; because it too, forever changes us. Like the scars left on abused babies bodies and the ache of the empty arms of a mother, so are the seared imprints of love on their hearts when they are cradled by someone who cares. They will never forget that pain, but neither will they ever forget the love either.

The ripple effects, the rhythmic and vibrating circles of cause and effect, are one and the same. It’s the energy that we choose to add, that changes the direction of the tides.

What if instead of dismissing or jumping to conclusions, we took a moment to educate ourselves and to try to understand? Or even more, to love?

Like the untimely falling of leaves, or the misdirected toss of a stone, not every component of life is one that we get to choose, or one that we welcome. But when those waves of impact strike us, will we add to them judgment and misfortune? Or will we change those circles into life-long lessons of love and acceptance?

Through our words and actions, we can choose to perpetuate anger, distrust, aggression and judgment OR we can be the waves of peace, trust, love and understanding.

The choice is ours. Go make your own ripples. The world is waiting.

 

 

The leaf image discussed in this piece is credited to Gunderson RTS.

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Building A City Made of Sweets… a journey in love and fostering

He came to us in the late night hours…separated from his sibling in an emergency placement. It was only suppose to be for a few days. He was holding a small plastic bag and nothing else.

“What do you have in your bag?” we inquired gently.

“Just my chips from dinner….and this…” He held up a tiny, soft McDonalds toy…”I like to sleep with this.”

We showed him around the house and introduced him to all of our pets. Our own children were sleeping sound in their beds. “Are you tired?” we asked. It was late for such a small child to still be awake and I imagined my own children in melt-down mode at that age. And yet this little guy was as calm and pleasant as could be. But then again, regardless of the hour, how does one sleep when they find themselves entering a strange, new home with uncertain plans and an uncertain future? But he nodded his head “yes.”

We were in awe of his lack of apparent fear, a sign of the hard journey that he’d been on. We gave him some comfy clothes to sleep in and a new toothbrush. And he neatly set his shoes beside his bed. We left a trail of lights on throughout the house, leading to our bedroom, and we retreated so that our eyes could meet and our hearts could break in private. Together, my husband and I imagined our own two children being separated and taken into strange homes in the midnight hour. And our insides ached. I stared at the ceiling for nearly an hour, processing his journey and contemplating ours, before I finally went back to peek-in on him. He was sound asleep…his tiny toy cupped in his small hands.

With only a few hours of rest myself, I was up early the next morning, coffee in hand, ready to greet our newest member when he awoke. I could hear him and my son talking in their beds and it made me smile. And then I heard the door crack. His little self stepped out with a cautious grin, stopped in front of his door and gave me a cheery “Good morning!”, before coming to greet me.

 

The following three days were well-spent. A trip to the bank- where he got to press the button and shoot the money tube for the first time, the pet store- where we stopped to see every little creature and the grocery store where he picked out a special treat-mangoes! A few new outfits and lots of new experiences, everything for him was new and fun and we had the most wonderful time getting to know one another. We learned that he was a master joke teller, a great helper and an amazing optimist. Everything from him was “Thank you!” and “That’s ok!” and “This is fun!”. He was grateful for every experience, every plate of food and every moment shared. And his most favorite thing to do…was to play board games, especially Candy Land. So we played lots and lots of Candy Land.

 

By his third night, he began to inquire more about his younger sibling. Unbeknownst to him, I had been calling daily, to try and reach the other foster mom to arrange a play date, all to no avail. As a mother, I was shocked that this wasn’t of upmost priority to every party involved. And on one particular night, when I could sense his unrest, a memory from my youth popped into my head, like a flashback, triggered by his angst, I remembered my own anxiety-filled nights as a child and one way that I used to cope.

I crouched next to his bed and I said “Do you know what I used to do? Sometimes, when I was lying in bed at night, before I’d fall asleep, I would build a city made of sweets, in my head. And then, all night, I’d dream about it.”

He gave me a curious, tell-me-more kind of expression. So I continued…”The walls of my house would be chocolate bars, the stone path would be hard candies…the windows…hmmm…what could be the windows?”

His eyes lit up and I could see the gears beginning to turn in his mind…shifting from uncertain angst to excitement.

“What would the grass be?” he asked.

“Sprinkles!” my son pipped in. “Green sprinkles on chocolate icing.”

“And the street lights would be candy canes!” he exclaimed…and before you knew it, we’d built half the neighborhood. I left him in bed, to build the rest.

When he awoke the next morning, he came to me with a smile. “You were right! I dreamed about my candy city all night!”

“That was a good dream wasn’t it?” I said. And he nodded furiously.

 

It didn’t take long to realize that we had received the most perfect first foster placement imaginable. He was sweet and well mannered, easy to love and he came with the condition that this placement was temporary. With that expectation, we viewed this placement like a long sleepover, like a friend of my children’s coming to stay for a few days. It would be easier that way, not to get too attached.

 

And then three days turned into three weeks. And one child, became two.

Through a series of unfortunate events (though fortunate for us), his younger sibling was removed from his placement and we were granted a temporary, emergency over-ride to have both children in our home over Spring Break, even though our license was only for one.

 

On his brother’s first night with us, we found another set of comfy clothes, even smaller than the ones we found two weeks before. And we reminded him of the lay out of the house and where to find us. Then, I flipped on the small lamp in their bedroom before turning the other lights out.

“Is that light bright?” the tiny sibling asked.

“A little bit” I answered. “Do you like light when you sleep? Or do you like it to be dark?”

His brother answered for him, like big brothers often do…”He likes light. He’s afraid of the dark. The last house he was staying in didn’t use lights at night and he was afraid.”

“It was very dark” the little one chimed in and his eyes got very big when he spoke.

My heart hurt. “Who doesn’t leave a light on for such a small child?” I thought to myself. “Well in this house…we always have light.” I told him. And the symbolism didn’t escape me.

Despite his approval of the brightness of the room, as I went to tuck the two in bed, I could still see angst in the tiny one’s eyes. And so I sat beside him on his bed. And I said “Do you know what I like to think about before I go to sleep?…” and together his big brother and I taught him how to build ‘A City made of Sweets’.

His reaction the following morning was just like his brother’s.

 

Over the next week, we continued our adventures as a family of six now. They loved the chore of feeding the animals. They loved to sing and dance-particularly when I played music from their country-something no one had done for them since they’d been removed from their parents months before. They loved sandwiches. They loved the dogs. They loved all their new experiences. And they loved to talk and joke and spend time together as a family.

That family experience only heightened when we got the agency to approve of us taking the boys out of state to spend the Easter holiday with my sister. It would be their first holiday in placement and also happened to be their birthday week. So we wanted it to be an extra special time. And it was.

We went to the Zoo, packed a picnic, played Basketball, Frisbee…and board games of course! We had a birthday party, dyed eggs and made crafts. My sister’s family gifted them with stuffed toys and board games. The boys had a nerf war- and their minor disgruntlements over who had more darts was far over-weighed by the saturation of love.

On Easter Sunday, while the littlest foster and I walked together in search of treat-filled plastic eggs, he made reference to a conversation we had had earlier in the week, about spreading love. That conversation, which at the time, turned into a competition of “Who can say the sweetest thing?” had very clearly made an impression on the little boy.

“I have lots of good things to say,” he said. “I want to give love to the world…like you told me.”

“Oh, you have so much love to give the world…” I told him.

Clutching his bag full of eggs and nodding his head furiously, he looked up at me and said…”Yeah…and You taught me that…you did!”

 

Despite the clear expectation that this was a temporary placement, in those three weeks, we had fallen head-over-heels in love with those two boys. And they with us. And when the day came that they had to leave, (because our temporary “over-ride” was up and the boys needed a placement that could accommodate the state regulations for two), the devastation on their faces nearly broke me.

And for a moment, I questioned the very reason we started this journey in the first place.

We started this journey to be able to show children in need that normalcy and a home of love and joy exists- so that as they grew, they would know what they could achieve if they strived for it. And when I told those little faces that they were going to leave, it was as if I yanked an ice cream cone out of their hands and threw it away in front of them. Like after a lifetime of never experiencing chocolate, I gave them a taste and then took it away. And for a brief time, I questioned if by having them these past three weeks, we had made everything worse. If they had never tasted the sweetness of a loving, structured and supportive family, could they have been saved from the pain of now missing it? In giving them a gift that was destined to be taken away, did we only hurt them more?

But once the hurt settled a little, I began to remember the many sweet memories we made together, the new experiences and the lessons in love… the times they told me that they learned new things from me and the times I watched their uncertain angst melt into a relaxed feeling of safety. I felt affirmed that despite my own hardships growing up, I had in fact, created a happy home. While not a perfect Mom, I am a good one. And despite my earlier discouragements, three weeks of happiness was in fact, better than none.

 

While I settled them into the back seat of the social worker’s car… I kissed their faces and wiped their tears, holding back my own. “Take all the love and joy that we had here… and spread it wherever you go.” I told them. “That is your job. That is what you came here to learn. I want you to teach the world how to love.”

They pulled out of the drive, clutching their new stuffed toys- a red dino and a brown monkey. There was a duffle bag full of new clothes and shoes, two Easter baskets and a gift bag full of games- Chutes and Ladders, Uno, Trouble…and Candy Land.

I waved until the car was out of sight, stepped into the house… and my own liquid heartbreak ran down my face. But underneath that sadness, was a strong sense of hope.

That night, when I settled into bed, the first in three weeks, with only two children in my home, I pictured my other two lying in different beds. And I hoped that wherever they were… In their hearts, the seeds of love that we had planted were and would forever grow… and I hoped that in their heads… they were building A City Made of Sweets.

 

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Making room for Jaden

Names and identifying details have been changed to protect Jaden’s identity

The night started out like many other Saturday nights. I was at work, night shift on Labor and Delivery, when my cell phone began to buzz in my scrub pocket. It was almost 10pm and while I was only a few hours into my twelve-hour shift, it was late for the rest of the world. Peeking into my pocket, I could see that it was daughter calling. Every Mom knows the worry that comes with a late-night phone call and I anxiously stepped off the floor to take the call.

“Mom, I don’t know what to do…. I got a text from Jaden. He said he’s been out on the streets and hasn’t eaten or slept for 3 days. He feels like he’s gonna pass out… he needs a place to lay down.”

 

Jaden was an old friend of my daughter’s. He was a child that I had a compassionate eye on and one that I held a special place in my heart for, for many years prior. I knew that Jaden had a history of trauma and he was always the kid that you saw in the absence of his parents, no matter what event was happening. Whenever I could, I tried to include him.

I remember standing up to take his picture at an event one time and he later asked my daughter why I had done so.  “I don’t know,” was her childish response. But children don’t always see the world the way a mother does. Whilst the kids seemed unfettered, my inner Momma was screaming when I saw that little boy standing up in front of the crowd, holding his certificate and not a soul was standing to capture his moment. “Because every kid needs their picture taken today!” I wanted to say. “Because every kid needs someone to stand-up for them. Every kid needs someone to be proud.” That was the answer I wanted to give, but couldn’t. Instead I blinked back the tears and smiled, “Oh I just like taking pictures… I’ll give you a copy when I get them printed…do you want to sit here?”

As the years ticked by, his situation never improved. “I think my Mom wants to adopt you,” my daughter once told him. “Hmmph… I wish she would,” the quiet little boy mumbled. And as he got older and his traumas started to become evident even to my daughter, she told him, “You know Jaden… if you ever need anything, you can always come to us.”

He was a good kid. He got good grades. He was respectful, helpful and kind. He liked to joke and had the sweetest smile that warmed my soul. But behind that smile, there was pain in his eyes. A pain that he hid well from others. I wanted so badly to rescue him, to hold him and tell him it was going to be okay. I wanted to love him like a Momma and not just in passing moments.

And then life situations happened and we lost contact with Jaden. Before that late August night, three years had passed since we had seen him last. His name would come up from time to time within our family and we wondered where he was and how he was doing.

So when that text came in, it was both an answer to prayers and a nightmare coming to fruition.

“Let him in,” I said without hesitation.

 

“Ummm… who’s going to talk to Dad?” my intuitive daughter inquired. (The fact that my husband was even still awake at this hour was a small miracle. Not to mention, that I’m the risk-taker of the family. I am the “rescuer”. My husband lives with much more caution and direct dedication to the people he calls his “own”. And he hates drama. This could be interesting.)

“Put him on the phone,” I told her.

I explained the situation to my husband, reminding him who this child was. “Bring him inside, feed him and then call me back,” were my instructions. And so they did. From inside the hospital walls, I conducted a plan. When my husband called me back, I spoke with the young man myself to confirm his situation. I explained to him that I’d have to call the police and he understood. From inside an empty patient room, I filed a police report and sent them to my home where my family and Jaden waited.

It felt like forever before my husband called me back again. And when he did, he explained that the police could find no ‘missing persons report’. “We have no recourse,” they said, “He can stay here as long as you guys are okay with it.” At this point it was almost 2 am. “Set Jaden up on the couch, put our daughter in our bed tonight and I’ll deal with this when I get home in the morning,” I told my husband. “You guys need to get some sleep.”

For the rest of my shift, my head spun.

 

Fostering was always something I was interested in. For years my husband and I talked about it and for years, my enthusiasm was met by my husband’s reluctance and caution. My husband has the most amazing ability to love that I have ever seen; but his practical concerns for his family’s safety and security and his own future, as an already not-so-young father of four, impeded him from taking that step. And yet for me, regardless of all practicality, from somewhere outside of my own self, something much bigger than me, was prompting me to take on another child- one who didn’t know the love that we had built inside our home, one who needed to catch a break, one who needed somebody who was willing to stand-up for them.

In fact, just a few weeks prior to Jaden’s surprise arrival, my husband and I had another discussion on the topic. I remember telling him, ” I respect that this is not something you are willing to do right now, but I need you to hear me… There is a drive inside of me to do this. It is strong. And I have been pushing it away and trying to ignore it for a long time now. I can’t do this without you, but I don’t know how much longer I can keep denying this feeling. I think there is someone we are supposed to save.”

 

So here I was, on an unusually quiet night in the hospital, consumed by my present situation. While I watched the monitors of new babies heart beats, my own heart was beating faster than before. A million questions and possibilities flooded my mind all at once. Was it safe to have Jaden in the house? I mean he seemed like a nice kid, but it’s been years since we’ve seen him and we know he has a long history of trauma. He is a teenager now and I have a beautiful teenage girl and a young vulnerable little boy. In my efforts to help this neglected youth, have I put my own family’s safety in jeopardy?

But then again, what if Jaden is the child I’ve been called to save? Perhaps because I’ve been ignoring those inner-promptings, the universe has decided “Look, you’re not listening to me… so here you go! Here’s your child!” My non-believing self began to wonder, if maybe, divine hands placed this child on my doorstep for a reason.

And what about my husband? Sure, he sounded understanding and cooperative in these initial moments, but what about tomorrow? What is our end game? If this is the child we are called to save, and he puts him back out, it will break me. But if I coerce him to do something he is uncomfortable with and a member of my family ends up getting hurt, it will break our marriage. All night my mind was clouded with every direction this could go. And inside those cement walls, I felt helpless as my family slept and the quiet of the night echoed my uncertainties. I turned to coworkers and asked for wisdom and prayers and I turned inward, asking for answers.

On my drive home that morning, my eyes welled with tears as I ruminated all the possibilities. In the wee hours of the morning, I had already spoken with a friend who was a social worker. They instructed me that my next step was to call Child Protective Services and to prepare an answer in the event that they asked me if we were willing to keep Jaden. Given the situation, they were sure, the case would meet criteria for “Child Neglect” and finding placement for a teen, a minority boy at that, would be a challenge to say the least. The system where we live is already inundated with kids with no homes.

So … for the first time in 20 years, I prayed. And my prayer was that the universe speak to me through my husband; that through his words and his wisdom, I would know what to do.

When I got home, I found only my daughter in the bed and I tried to prepare myself for my husband’s reaction by first talking to her.

“How did Daddy do last night?” I cautiously inquired.

“Fine,” was her nonchalant, teenage response.

“I mean how was he with Jaden? Did he seem upset?”

“No, he gave him a big hug. And when the cops had Jaden outside, while they talked to him, Daddy said “Well, maybe we’ll just adopt him.”

I stopped the joyful tears before they came and the skeptic that forever lives inside of me, silenced my celebration. My daughter, much like her like mother, is forever trying to save something or someone. And so I concluded, I must take her response with a grain of salt.

And then my husband entered and we excused our daughter. I explained to him that I had spoken with a social worker and what the next steps that we needed to take would be. I also explained a need to prepare an answer for the possibility that they asked us if we were willing to keep Jaden. “What should I tell them, if they ask?”

“What are you going to do-put him out, like everybody else?”, he responded, “There’s nothing else to do. We let him stay.”

“And what about the long-term?” I asked. “What if this isn’t just a day or two…then what?”

“Let’s do your thing” he said.

“What thing?”, the skeptic continued.

“You’ve been saying that there is someone who we’re suppose to save, maybe this is it.”

And my heart sung! But the skeptic kicked in for one last punch…”You know this is ludicrous!?” I told him. “We have a teenage daughter and this is an older, teenage boy with a bad history.”

Without being the least bit shook, he said, “I’m really not worried about it. I feel totally peaceful with him staying here.”

And there it was, the answer that I prayed for, straight from my husband’s lips and not a waver of uncertainty.

Our daughter had gone back to her own bed, our son still hadn’t awaken and Jaden was still fast asleep, mouth open on the couch. I’d later learn that he was a 6 am riser and the fact that he stayed knocked out until noon that day, confirmed his story was true, he’d been on the streets for a long time. He was tired. I told my husband that we’d have a family meeting when I woke up and I turned in to bed. As I pulled the sheets up to my neck, a single tear ran down my cheek and I looked up, “Well…that was fast.” I had my answer, now for the next step.

 

When I awoke that afternoon, so had Jaden. With my cup of coffee, I took the teen outside and we talked. I needed to know what had happened to land him here and what had happened in the years leading up to this. I needed to know if he was an unreported runaway or if he’d truly been “put-out” like he claimed. I needed to understand what I might be up against and I wondered what brought him to us. As much as I wanted to help him, I also had to consider the abilities and safety of my family.

Some things he answered honestly and easily, and others, he’d avert his eyes and say “I don’t really like to talk about it.” He was a child of trauma and the evidence of such oozed from every orifice.

By the end of our conversation, I learned that his story of abuse started as early as he could remember. That despite his lack of detail, his life, as predicted, had been riddled with abuse, neglect and loss. That he’d been fighting to not become the dysfunction that he’d been surrounded by. And that now, that fight had brought him to living on the streets. For twenty days, he walked and used his change for bus fare to reach his old familiar neighborhood where he house-hopped until he ended-up at ours. I told him that I’d do whatever I could to help him and that he was welcome to stay with us.

“You’d have to share a room with our son and it’s a small room. We have rules. And we don’t have much to offer in the way of space and fancy things…” “That’s okay”, he replied.

“But we do have a happy home and we do have fun,” I added.

“I’ll take it,” he said. And right then, I accepted Jaden as one of the family, just as he was, as my son.

I also explained to him that in order to protect us all and to do things the right way, I’d have to call CPS. He agreed to cooperate.

 

The story behind my experience with CPS is not one that I will elaborate much on, but I will say that it was both maddening and disheartening. The recommendations from CPS varied from “take him back home” to “work out an agreement with his family on your own terms” to “drop him off at the CPS office”. Instead we loved him and made him part of our home, hoping that the state would investigate, intervene and give us the graces to continue to care for him. After four days with us, Jaden was removed from our custody when his parents signed him over as a ward of the state and we were deemed “unfit” for no other reason than we did not have a foster license.

Four days … that’s it. I thought I was prepared for this foster thing. And yet we sobbed when he left.

That weekend, we used our grief as motivation and we started to prepare his room…we started to make room for Jaden.

Removing the carpet from my son’s room, the kids helped to pull the staples out of the wood floors. And my angst gave energy to my arms for polishing the floors. Boxes of belongings were packed up and sent to Goodwill to create more space. And furniture was moved around.

It became clear then, that our journey with fostering was not over, it was just beginning.

 

The first step in obtaining a foster license was to attend a mandatory 3-hour information session. In that session, they explained what would be required to obtain a license, what challenges you might encounter and the basic “do’s” and “don’ts” of foster care. To say that the information was overwhelming would be an understatement.

A typically resilient and zealous person, I sat there in silence and thought…”We can’t do this. This is too much! I’ve got four jobs and two other children-both of whom require a lot of me.”

I felt defeated and I wanted to cry. Consumed by my feelings, I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and make eye contact with my husband. For over an hour, I avoided his glance; because I was so sure he’d give me the confirmation that I didn’t want-that it was just going to be “too much” and that we were going to have to walk away. And I just didn’t want to see that same defeat in his eyes. I didn’t want to walk away but I didn’t know how we were going to do this either.

Finally, I braved the glance. I turned around and our eyes met. In a dirty state room, amongst a sea of people, a silent conversation of a lifetime took place in a few seconds between our two sets of eyes. “Defeat” wasn’t what his eyes spoke and yet he must have read the hesitancy in mine.

“We have to do this!” he said after a few silent moments, ” We are perfect for this. We have everything we need to make this work!”

And there again came the wisdom from my husband that I had prayed for. “Ok,” I said. My confidence instantly restored by his, “Let’s do this.”

Two nights a week for six weeks, we’d race home from work and after-school pick-ups to go to class. Still in our work clothes, oftentimes with our dinners in Tupperware, sitting on hard chairs in a sketchy room, in a state building in a rough end of town 40 min away from home, we’d attend 3-hour sessions on the horrors, challenges and needs of foster care. And every time my husband was energized and excited. We made friends. We learned. And we became even more impassioned to love another child.

On the last class, the instructor went around the room and asked everyone for their “one takeaway”. “I had no idea there were so many children who needed homes,” my husband offered. “I’m just really excited to be able to help some of them.” Another affirmation.

Three-hundred and seventy to be exact. Three-hundred and seventy children, the resource worker told us, who currently have no placements, no “home.”

 

As for Jaden, he maintained communication with us for the seven months it took us to meet all of the requirements to obtain a foster license-30 hours of classes, background checks and fingerprinting, home inspections and home revisions, interviews, references and applications. It wasn’t easy, but it was a journey that we continued to feel compelled to take.

By the time we finished, he was settled where he was. He was settled at his school, with his new friends and with his current foster parents. And he elected to maintain his current placement instead of coming back to us. It was hard at first, to say another good-bye to the little boy I committed to loving like my own. But Jaden’s happiness and safety was always the goal. It was never about me.

“I can never thank you guys enough for what you’ve done for me,” he said. “And you’ll always be my family. I’m ok here, I’m going to stay here. But you guys made me smile during a time in my life when I had nothing else to smile about. And I will always remember that.”

So why then did Jaden come? Why on that late August night did he knock on our door? Why did we go through all of this just for him to choose to stay somewhere else in the end?

As it turned out, Jaden wasn’t our end game. Yes, we had a hand in his reaching safety and happiness, but he wasn’t the only child we were suppose to save. As I thought about the journey that my husband took and how his reluctance turned to commitment, literally overnight, I realized, he needed a face to fight for. The idea of sacrificing for an imaginary child wasn’t in his realm of possibility; but fighting for Jaden was. I realized too, that had we known from the beginning, that Jaden wouldn’t come back, we wouldn’t have ever taken on the arduous seven month journey of getting a license. My husband’s world never would have been opened up to the great need of the children of our city, without those seven weeks of classes, without the stories and the statistics and the many, many faces like Jaden’s. And in turn, I wouldn’t have continued to fight without my husband to push me along.

Jaden wasn’t our destination, he was our catalyst – a catalyst for a journey I’d been called to take for a long time. And he was is a very special little boy, who opened up our world and pushed us to greater things. “You’ll always be family to me,” Jaden says.

You’ll always be our life-changer, Jaden.

And now with our well-earned license in hand, we wait…we wait for a placement… we wait for the universe to speak to us again and to send us the next child who needs our love- be it for four days, four months or forever.

Oh, what an adventure it is going to be… an adventure that all started when we decided to make room for Jaden.

 

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10 Things That You Love: Love and Loss … and Foster Care

 

In Foster Parent classes, there’s an exercise that they sometimes do. The instructor leading the class, hands everyone 10 blank cards. Then, they ask everyone to write on those cards, “The 10 things that you love the most”, the 10 things that are the most important to you or that you would want to have in your life. Individual people or pets should not be listed separately but would be grouped on single cards labeled “Family”, “Friends” or “Pets,” for instance. And basic life necessities like food, water, clothing need not be included. I engaged in this activity during one of our final classes…

“Whelp, family, friends and pets, there’s my first 3 cards”… I thought. I’ve got 7 more to fill in.

My “Home” seemed an obvious choice. And oh how I love my “Vacations/Traveling”. I suppose I want my job…and I’d like to have my “Car” too…hmmm this is going to be hard to choose only 10.

The room buzzed as people filled-in the various things that they loved the most. And you overheard people talk about their favorite activities, hobbies, life-focuses and family heirlooms. People started off more concrete, many with the same first three cards as I did; but as we continued, people began to think outside the box. And they began to write things like “Hope” or  “Faith” on their remaining cards. Until finally, everyone had 10 cards filled out in front of them. Our 10 most important things.

The instructor asked us to spread those cards out in front of us and look at them, think about them, imagine them. And she asked us how we felt, looking and thinking about those 10 things. Whatever they might be – our loved ones, our community, our favorite pastime, a sport, our puppy dogs and kitty cats… maybe even something as simple as chocolate – All of these things that bring our life significance and comfort and joy.

A quick glance around the room revealed only smiles. Those 10 little cards signified the 10 things, that we as individuals, held dearest in our lives. Remembering the people and the things that we treasured the most, made everyone feel happy… kind of day-dreamy, almost.

And then the instructor asked us to take away a card. We were shocked.

I mean if you had to narrow down all of the many things that you love/want/need, to only 10… those 10 things are precious! How could we chose which one to eliminate. Not having a car meant I’d be taking the bus to work. No vacations??? I’d be a mess! My hobbies??? But those keep me sane and they bring me so much joy!

One card gone. And the mood of the room completely changed. The smiles were all gone and had been replaced with furrowed brows and looks of concern. They asked us to imagine our life now, without that thing. And it hurt.

And then they asked us to take away another.

“That’s preposterous!” we thought. Another one from the remaining 9 things we held closest to our hearts?! Shaking our heads, we removed another card. Once again, imagining our lives without it.

And then we had to take away another.

And another.

And another.

Each time, being asked to imagine our lives without that thing. And by that point, our initial feelings of concern, had turned to anger and feelings of unfairness and disbelief. In a few short minutes, the entire room’s mood had turned upside-down. How can you ask me, from the 10 things I love the most, to eliminate half?! We felt robbed!

Down to 5 now…and they asked us to take away another.

A room full of adults doing a simple exercise, and at this point, people were half-threatening to get up and leave. Others, said they were refusing to eliminate any more. Some laughed nervously and others sat in saddened silence; everyone finding it impossibly hard to eliminate any one of our top 5 things of importance. And while we continued along with the exercise, knowing full well, that it was just that; when asked to imagine, once again, “How that would feel?”, the fear of those losses began to induce feelings of panic within us. And we began to pray that the forced choices and the losses, while only imagined, would stop.

But the exercise continued until we were down to only one card.

The room was sullen. No more laughs. No more jokes or empty threats. We had been stripped of just about everything that we held dear.

“How do you feel now?” she asked. “Devastated” was the best word we could think of.

They then went around the room and asked everyone to share what their last remaining card was. For most, it was “Family”. And others sacrificed even that, for a virtue like “Hope” or “Faith”.

And after everyone had read their last card out loud, she said….

“Many of our foster children don’t even have that left.”

They’ve lost their homes, their schools, their friends, pets and family. Faith, Hope and Love are on their way out too. However dysfunctional their environment might have been, they have lost everything that was familiar and meaningful to them. And in the amount of time that it took you to complete this exercise, they were told to take whatever they could and throw it in a garbage bag. Then, they were dropped off at a stranger’s doorstep.

“The feelings that you had during this exercise,” she said, “the confusion, the anger, the panic and the sadness… remember those feelings when you get that knock on the door and you open your home to a foster child. And remember, that whatever you have left on that remaining card in front of you…you had a choice in and it’s STILL probably more than what they have left.”

 

Life is a series of circumstances, actions and reactions. We don’t get to choose to whom we are born and we don’t get a say in our genetic make-up. But we do have choices. What will you do with your choices? If you were born with a hand above others, will you choose to reach back and give someone else a lift? Or will you selfishly climb ahead and not look back? If you are at the bottom of the line, will you give-up and let your family’s history be your predetermined future? Or will you push harder to grasp whatever edge, whatever foothold can withstand the weight and pull yourself to the top? We can’t always control what obstacles, what loose rocks, come crumbling and spiraling towards us… but we can choose how we react and who we opt to continue our journey with. Life is a journey and an adventure! Take it! And make it a good one!

Interested in fostering? An internet search of the process in your state and county will yield a schedule of available classes-times and locations, as well as requirements. You’ll start with the info session and go from there. It’s not for the faint of heart but I do believe it is one of the greatest acts of love.

Keep loving. Keep growing. Keep striving to be the best damn person you can be. Life is short… May your blessings be bountiful and your regrets few.