Riding a Rocket

One of my facebook friends recently posted: If life is a roller coaster, then life with kids is an amusement park. Quite accurate, I think.  And may I add: Life with special kids with various needs is an amusement park on a rocket to outer space. Hold on, folks.

 

We, LB's parents, went to the school district at the end of last year and respectfully requested that he repeat sixth grade to give him every opportunity to experience success and to build up some confidence. Since he's small for his age and new to the school, we thought that he might be spared some of the typical stigma of being "held back." The district in all their wisdom (yes, the italics denote sarcasm) decided that promoting LB would be best.

 

After a few more meetings, we agreed to disagree with the clear expectation that the district was responsible for helping LB to succeed in middle school. And school started in September.

 

Fast forward a full marking period. Today I received an email from LB's case manager (the teacher responsible for the implementation of and the compliance with the Individualized Educational Plan - IEP) - who incidentally does not have LB for any classes and, by her own admission, really "doesn't know him at all," informing us that he is struggling to complete assignments for at least two classes and asking us what we want to do about it. Really?? What do WE want to do about it??

 

This particular teacher who is responsible for writing and implementing the IEP is also out of compliance as LB hasn't had a current IEP on file for the past week-plus. Today I also sent an email to the supervisor of special education inquiring about when we might expect to receive the updated IEP and Notice of Recommended Educational Placement (NOREP.) The response was a kick-back to the teacher and a statement that we "should receive it in a few days." Unacceptable.

Below is my response to LB's case manager and teachers. One (or what I hope will be, but I'm sure is not) last-ditch effort to advocate for our son.
 

 

 "Hello teachers,

Thank you all for doing what you do every day. On behalf of many parents, I thank you for doing a great job.

 

LB struggles. LB has every reason and right to struggle. In ten years of life he endured more trauma than most of us will endure in our lifetimes. He does not care about himself because no one ever cared about him; no one respected him as a person; no one modeled responsibility or accountability.

These are not excuses, these are the hard facts of my son's life. The trauma that he has walked though and the effects of it are not going to leave him or get better just because he has been removed from that unthinkable situation. Unfortunately, for the most part, the educators that we have worked with so far don't seem to "get it." I am pleading with you to try to understand.

 

LB is smart; he is undoubtedly very intelligent. He wants to do well. Those are also facts. But those facts are overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of suffering that he has endured and the amount of energy and work it takes for him to function each day.

 

Last year, as LB's parents, we strongly voiced our opinion that it would be best for him to repeat the sixth grade. In one year's time he had lived in three different homes and attended three different schools. He struggled to complete assignments last year. He struggled to understand social situations and authority. We just wanted him to have the best chance at success and thought that that might happen for him if he were to give sixth grade another try.

After several meetings, our request was denied and LB was promoted to seventh grade. We are not new to [this school] and know that it's a great school. The issue was not with the school, but rather with giving LB every opportunity to shine, to develop confidence, to feel good about himself - things that he's not experienced.

 

When the district decided it was best for LB to move on to seventh grade, we very clearly stated that we were in disagreement and that we expected the district to do everything necessary to help him succeed. Success being defined as: being able to operate and function in academic and social situations in ways commensurate with his peers; achieving passing grades; respecting authority and being a good citizen.

 

To date there have been no behavior issues that have been brought to our attention; we've received reports that LB is polite and participates in class. LB says he has friends, but does not mention any by name. LB earned two D's on his first marking period report card. There have been occasions when LB has been passively disrespectful to the authority of his teachers by lying about incomplete homework, or not bringing materials to class simply because "he didn't want to."

 

Given what we perceive to be happening, this is not a glowing success story and is less than we had hoped for, but sadly about what we expected, for our son in seventh grade.

 

All the above information is in response to [the case manager's] message to me informing us that "LB’s teachers have noticed a decrease in engagement the last couple of weeks." And that "assignment completion for reading and English has become an ongoing challenge." These statements do not surprise me, in fact, I am surprised that it has taken until this point in the school year for these things to become apparent. Kudos to my guy for trying to stick it out.

[The case manager] is also correct in that we "are allowing natural consequences to occur and feel that they are important learning experiences," because, frankly, what else are we supposed to do? We asked for what we deemed best for our child, the district disagreed. We were clear in our expectations of the district, and now it falls to the district to follow through.

 

We are not here to be adversaries and we certainly still want what is best for LB. And just so you know, "natural consequences" for us look like this: If LB does not complete his homework for whatever reason (didn't bring home materials, forgot to write it down, just doesn't want to) he is camped out at the kitchen table until the homework is complete - no going outside, no electronics, and that could be until bedtime if he so chooses. And that's about as much as we can do.

Whatever needs to happen at school to help our son succeed is now on the shoulders of you educators. We are willing to talk, to meet, to work together however we can to take care of our son. And by the way, LB legally became our son on October 28, and we couldn't be more blessed.

 

Thanks for your time and attention."

 

Forks and Flying Shoes

Friday mornings are a challenge. Maybe in your house, too. After a week of the getting-up-to-get-ready-for-school-and-out-the-door routine, patience and nerves are frazzled; and that's just me. Imagine how my kids must feel after holding it together (for the most part) in school every day for the week.

And Friday mornings are earlier-than-usual mornings due to before-school activities. Last Friday morning went off without a hitch; however, last Friday afternoon we - me and my FireBall - paid the price of holding it together: it was harsh, ugly, tearful, painful.

Our FireBall is blessed with an inordinate amount of ambition. If not for this fight and drive in life, FB would probably not have survived such a tenuous beginning of life. What probably saved that little life, now sometimes puts the rest of us at points where we just want the fight to stop. The drive to be right and win at any and all costs is often difficult to contain, but that's a mom's job, right, to help her children learn to appreciate how they are created and to find ways to channel and control that strong sense of driven-ness.

Unfortunately this Friday morning, despite my deep desire and desperate hope, was not a repeat performance of last week. It was a knock-down-drag-out-out-and-out-battle-to-win. Me trying to win a smooth morning and a peaceful household; FB fighting at every turn. It was forty minutes of sheer will-power to not raise my voice or resort to cutting sarcasm to try to make my point. All glory to God for keeping my mouth in check!

Now that the house is quiet(er) there is time to process the events of the morning - and of course what the fitting, helpful, and appropriate discipline will be. It strikes me that there were many points at which FB had a choice to make. It began with shoes.

On school mornings, our children are expected to come to the breakfast table fully dressed - including shoes. FB came in bare feet. When reminded to find shoes, FB found the step stool to climb up and reach the shelf in the laundry room to retrieve a pair of shoes that had been put there after FB had thrown them at me the week before.
Fork #1: FB could have complied and found another pair of shoes.

I returned the shoes to the shelf and FB found a pair of boots, for which socks are necessary. A short heated discussion ensued in which FB accused me of being a "sock freak" and me explaining that I don't have time or money to make doctor's appointments for sore feet. FB refused to go upstairs to get a pair of socks and instead threw one of the boots into the wall.
Fork #2: FB could have gotten a pair of socks.

The boots joined the other previously thrown shoes on the laundry room shelf and I followed FB up the stairs and through a slammed-in-my-face door. Amidst a torrent of angry words and more thrown shoes, a pair of socks was procured. While FB half-way shoved the socks on and continued to kick and throw things, I went around the room and gathered shoes and took them to my room. From the hallway I heard, "Well, I can just get them back. I HAVE MY WAYS!!"
Fork #3: FB could have put on socks and chosen any pair of shoes in the room.

The only option left were the sneakers left downstairs from the day before. With two minutes to go - before Daddy was leaving with the other kids - FB dragged down the stairs, slid into the sneakers, and demanded breakfast. When met with the response of, "You are out of time for breakfast," FB blamed me for "not letting me wear what I want."
Fork #4: FB could have pulled it together quickly enough to grab a piece of toast. (I thought it wise to not point that out at that particular time.)

The threat of the car starting was enough to spur FB onward. With much banging and bumping of walls and gathering the needed school items, my FB stomped out the door threatening to remove the sneakers while enroute to school.

I held my breath and waited for the next fifteen minutes to see if Stan would be returning a shoeless FB back home. No one returned. Whew.

For me, writing is thinking and processing. It does not matter to me who, if anyone, reads this post. The illumination that I have received while writing this morning is helpful as I move forward with my FB.

I, too, had forks, choices at each point. I could have chosen to just allow FB to wear those shoes from the laundry room shelf so there would be time enough for the breakfast that I know a growing body needs after a long week of school.

I could have allowed the boots to be worn without socks. Really, would one day have resulted in problems?

I could have left the flying shoes remain where they landed to be cleaned up at a later, calmer time.

I could have offered to fix breakfast while FB went to get some socks, and at least sent along a piece of toast.

At any point, I could have forced a hug on my FB; sometimes it breaks the cycle, sometimes it exacerbates it - it's always hard to tell, but always worth the effort.

The forks I chose this morning were based on a long history with FB, and on recent events, discussions, and choices. Standing my ground, while (by the grace of God alone) remaining calm and even-keeled seemed to be the best course of action.

So I will spend some time today charting out our morning so that FB can spend some time this afternoon reviewing the forks that were chosen and the ones that might have been but were not.

I will also spend some time wondering why this child has so many shoes...

From a Mile Away

This morning our littlest had an appointment with a specialist at the hospital. Since we had landed an early time slot, the waiting room was empty except for another mom and her little boy. After signing in, we took a seat across the way from the other pair and it wasn't long before we began stealing little sideways glances toward each other, and then exchanged half-smiles and friendly nods.

Her little boy was doing his best to weasel his way out of his stroller and she gently reminded him to "sit up like a big boy." When the weaseling didn't yield results, he commenced spitting; to which she replied, a little less gently, "That doesn't bother me, you're only hurting yourself." Looking at me, she said, "He's such a handful, I just don't know how he can be so bad." And in the next breath, "How old is your little guy?"

"Fourteen months," I answered, "how about yours?" "He's just about nineteen months, he's been this way since he was nine months old. I got him when he was only a month old," she says with a sigh of - what I readily recognize as - exhaustion. "How long have you had yours?"

I knew I recognized a kindred spirit even before the conversation started. Yes, the fact that she and her little boy didn't match in the exact opposite way that me and my littlest don't match was a big clue. Honestly, however, I have stopped noticing, or am too tired or don't care enough, or am not observant, or am just oblivious to non-matching families anymore. Maybe that's what tipped off my new friend, who knows.

For the next half-hour, while our boys' eyes were being dilated and the waiting room began filling, we shared our hearts and our struggles. We exchanged gripes about the system and case workers. She talked about how hard it is to watch her little one go back and forth to visit with his birth family every weekend and know that reunification isn't any closer. That she knows so many of his challenging behaviors are due to his uncertainty. Her agency is trying to convince her to have the little boy moved to another home because they think "he is just too much for her to handle." "What do they think moving him is going to solve," she asked me rhetorically.

All the while we were talking my littlest was content to squirm around on my lap and in my arms; her little was pitching a fit in that stroller, taking off his shoes and socks, and still spitting. Every now and then, when he calmed down, she would take him out of the stroller and hold him or follow him around the waiting area, until he refused to listen, and then back to the stroller he went. Those people who had filled the waiting room did their little sideways glance thing, too. But no one else struck up a conversation with my friend; and in fact, several of them remarked to each other about that "out of control, loud kid in the stroller."

It's hard to explain how much I wanted to stand up and shout, "But you don't even KNOW!"
Or how much helplessness and isolation I felt on behalf of that little boy, and frustration and maybe embarrassment on behalf of his foster momma. Or how much of a connection I felt with my new friend as she just focused on loving her little one. And it's hard to explain how foster mommies seem to be able to spot each other from a mile away.

For Now

It's been looming and lurking; inklings of ideas and bits and fragments of life. This task of a post when so much has transpired since the last post is daunting, but exciting.

For my own benefit, to put life in perspective, and to process the past several months this will be an up-date on the situations in our family and a synopsis of our journey through the foster care system recently.

A new school year brought transitions; one student at the high school - the first one we've not had to register mid-way through the year and learn how to do things on the fly, two students beginning middle school - our two who struggle with academics and/or boundaries and/or responsibility. It's going to be quite a year at the middle school.

At the end of the last school year, we requested of the district that one of our sixth graders be retained for another year of elementary school where the pace is slower, the teachers more nurturing, and the expectations familiar. Our rationale was based on the fact that, within the space of a year, this child lived in three different homes, attended three different schools, and was healing from the loss of birth family and the trauma of abuse, and the rejection from a disrupted (almost, but not quite) adoption. We thought it unfair to put this child through yet another change; all while functioning at the emotional level of a five-year-old.

We were denied that request and so this child faced - with incredible resilience - the prospect of middle school: lockers, changing classes, organization of notes and hand-outs, recording assignments, navigating the cafeteria, finding the right bus. At three weeks in, there have been some expected and manageable bumps; and I find myself needing to bite my tongue to keep the "this is exactly what I was afraid of" comments at bay and substituting with messages of "we know you can do this" and "we've got your back."

In addition to the frustration over the district's decision, the adoption of this child has been delayed and delayed again so that what we hoped would be completed before the start of the new school year - a new last name, an increased sense of security - has yet to finalize. Anxiety has thrown our child into some furious tailspins; just this week we slogged through a rough evening of temper tantrums, tears, upset outbursts, and cutting words. At the end of it all I simply told our child that this is it, the last stop. That the feelings of uncertainty make sense since the last family backed out of the adoption at the last minute; and since he had no control in that situation, we understand that he is desperately trying to get control now - trying to set us up to reject him, for this adoption to also fail. It's so hard to see him so afraid; but hopeful to know that he'll always be our son, that we have a lifetime to help to heal the hurt.

Our other new-to-middle-schooler has been with our family for twenty months. And in those months has had consistent visits with his birth mom for about half that time; and those only every other week for one hour. There is sporadic telephone contact with our guy prompting his mother to call the office to schedule visits - it's heart-breaking to hear, and even more heart-breaking when she never follows through.

Court is coming up and the petition to terminate parental rights. Our guy - of very few words, who is still very guarded with his thoughts and feelings - just needs to know what is in his future. He talks of returning home, but also of the upcoming holidays and the rest of the school year here. And then we still expect him to make academic gains - which he does with leaps and bounds, and function socially - everybody loves him, and identify himself as a member of our family - he is polite and kind and respectful and loves his Grammy and Pappy. We hold onto the hope that God has a plan for our guy, and that His timing is perfect.

Our littlest is also in limbo, but also gives us so much reason to hope. He is now fourteen months old and has made so much progress in the past six months that the therapists are having to continually change and up-date his goals. This summer, more quickly than was anticipated, his case moved toward adoption. This summer, with some back and forth, it became apparent that we are not the best choice to be his forever family.

When we adopted our girls, the limit that Stan and I settled on was that, due to our ages we could adopt more children but none younger than the girls; and that we could continue to foster the children God placed in our home. Each day brings joy as we watch this baby learn and interact with our family. Without a doubt he was placed here for this season, and we have hope that the adoptive family that has been chosen for him will love and provide for him in just the way God has planned.

This week I remarked to a case worker that there's not a whole lot of "intentional parenting" going on; it's more like running around and putting out fires ...for now. There are conversations with individual kids here and there, and I am aware of who is doing what activities and when and where to get them there - and that's all good and necessary.

As we pass through this season of "for now" there is hope for the return of those heart-to-heart talks - hearing the thoughts and feelings behind what happened during their days, and connecting with them in unique and special ways.

Less is More

In the past nine months there have been busted basketballs, broken bicycles, dismantled RC vehicles, ripped clothing, holes in the drywall, mangled toys...all because he claims he's "destructive, that's just the way I am."

We celebrated his birthday at the beginning of the month with a small family party: a favorite meal, cake, ice cream, simple gifts - a new fishing rod and some tackle for his collection. Despite my forethought of putting the gifts away for safe-keeping until a fishing opportunity presented itself, my man squirreled his possessions in his closet where I found him a few days later - reel in one hand, rod in the other, fishing line tangled and trashed all around him. With no emotion and very few words, I gathered the mess and walked it to the trash dumpster.

Frustrated, yes. Angry, not so much. When kids come from places without boundaries and are permitted to treat people and things disrespectfully without consequences, a sense of entitlement seems to develop: Why should he bother to care if no one has ever bothered to care about him.The attitude of "nothing really matters" grows from a heart of a young boy who feels that HE doesn't really matter.

I decided that we were expecting too much. Our man needed to practice caring for and respecting a little before we could possibly demand of him to respect a lot. So this was the plan...

Taking advantage of a weekend when several of the kids were away - more quiet, less questions - this guy's bedroom was stripped of all but a few items: comb, Bible, family photo, pillow, sheets and blankets. Boxes of puzzle pieces, loose batteries, tiny screws, odds and ends of various board games, and paper trash were carted to the dumpster. All clothing was washed, dried, folded and stored in bins in our bedroom. A clean slate.

Upon arriving home on Sunday, I explained that Daddy and I had not been fair. We had expected him to know what to do with so much; we hadn't given him time to relax and learn; we had imposed consequences before he was able to be responsible. To make life easier, I explained, we had pared down the things he needed to be responsible for.

We went upstairs and I toured his bedroom with him. Then we went to his clothing bins where he chose five outfits to wear for the next week. The deal is that when he very responsibly brings ALL the dirty clothes to be washed on Friday, he will earn the right to choose another five outfits. If, however, the laundry is not cared for responsibly, he will lose the privilege of choosing his own outfits and will be given only four days worth of clothing at a time. He will help us to know how much is too much responsibility.

Similarly, the school backpack had become a breeding ground for overdue library books, unsigned tests, and incomplete homework assignments. A few weeks ago we traded the backpack in for a simple tote bag with one big pocket - it's much harder to "lose" things in one big pocket.

Just today life was simplified yet again when damage that occurred in the basement play area could not (would not?) be accounted for. For the next few days his responsibilities have been decreased to include only the main floor of the house where he can be more easily held responsible and accountable.

This is not a good feeling. I want to give things to my children, not take them away. But as I reminded this son of mine tonight before bed, the only thing that there is not less of is my love for him.  Of that there can never be less and there can never be more. It just is.

Too Nice

Children in the foster care system are damaged - physically, emotionally, mentally, relationally, spiritually; and neglected and deprived - of attention, basic needs, discipline, love.

Children in the foster care system are incredibly resilient. Rejection is met with ambition; trauma is processed and overcome; hurts are manged with amazing coping skills.

But the scars remain. For a long time. Maybe for a life time.
And that stinks. It hurts. It's hard to feel so helpless; to not be able to fully heal the hurt that has been caused.

As we've become more seasoned parents of kids with with special needs stemming from special circumstances, our perspective has developed and changed. We are not any "better" parents than we were fourteen years ago - more tired, yes; more patient, hopefully - nor are we any "better" than any other parents out there. And the struggle continues: finding an effective balance between that helplessness to heal and the desire to make it all okay.

Our family is beyond blessed with support from many avenues - family, friends, neighbors, church, school, community; and in so many ways - prayer, clothing, transportation, listening ears, encouragement, tutoring, child care. I am continually amazed at the orchestration of God in our lives and grateful for every kindness.

However, and you knew this was coming...

it is a continuing journey for us to learn to interact with grace toward people who want to do nothing but help and bring healing to these special kids, but unintentionally encourage our kids to become entitled. You know: "Poor me, I'm a foster kid. I've never had what other kids have had, so I need more; more attention, more pity, more stuff." Admittedly, none of our kids have ever spoken these words; however, many of them have clearly 'spoken' this attitude.

Some of the frustrations we've encountered:

Teachers who like our kids so much that grades are given instead of earned. We've been told that good grades have been bestowed on some of our children because, "he did a good job for what he can do," rather than being held to the same standard as the class. This serves to teach our kids that as long as they play the pity card, they can do just enough; or if they can make a good show of the struggle, then they will be rewarded.

With six or more kids in our family, there is no way that everything is equal. Fair, yes; equal, not always. And as parents we're okay with that. When one of our kids is singled out with repeated gifts seemingly solely due to their status as "foster child," entitlement and expectations to be able to "have" are raised and difficult to undo. Not to mention the obvious notice of the other kids who are not recipients of special treats, and the questions and resentment that can fester.

Excused behaviors or questions regarding our discipline choices are probably the most challenging. With younger children it is common to see testing of simple boundaries: grabbing toys, hitting, refusing to sit at the meal-time table; which result in common consequences: time-out, redirection. But even with young ones we've heard comments like: "well, she just doesn't know any better"; "just let him have it, it's okay"; "boy, you don't let anything slide." The older the child, (generally) the longer she/he has been without consistent boundaries and discipline, the more firm boundaries and discipline are needed. This usually is not translated well to on-lookers who wonder why our kids spend so much time sitting in a chair, miss out on normal kid activities, or are kept within close proximity to us (what we lovingly refer to as "being on a short leash.") We've been criticized for being too hard and having expectations that are unfair; not often, but enough times to have caused me to think and rethink who I am as a mom.

And I am grateful for those promptings - okay, not right in that moment, but maybe the next day after replaying the circumstance. I am grateful that there are people in my life who are not too nice. 





 

It's A Mystery

One sneaker at the bottom of the stairs, half a red crayon under the kitchen table, two lonely magnet blocks right beside the game cabinet where the set is stored, pink hair tie on the stairs, a black sock straggling out of the bathroom doorway...

And I didn't pick up any of them.

While brushing my teeth and beginning to fume, an idea began and the details became clearer. A Mystery Box.

A quick rummage through the stack of odd boxes in the crawl space produced a smallish-squarish plain white box with an attached lid

Some five minutes with the crayons (and yes, the broken red one stayed under the table) and the box was be-decked with a large "?" on each side.

A sticky note with the message "put away the magnet blocks" was placed on the inside of the lid. Inside the box itself was a bag of mini Oreos. And the finishing touch, a piece of masking tape to caution the curiousity seekers.

When my entourage arrived home from school, the box was waiting; conspicuously placed and awaiting the questions: "What's that?" "Where'd it come from?" "Mommy, did YOU make that?" "What's in it?"

"Yup, it was all me," I answered. "And here's how it's going to work. There is a mystery chore inside. The person who does the mystery chore gets to open the box and have what's inside. And no peeking."

"Do I have to do this?" one of them asks.
"Nope, it's totally voluntary. But you just might get the prize without even trying. All you need to do is be aware of what you could do to help around the house."

That afternoon some of the kids were busy being helpful: taking out the recycles, wiping the table, asking siblings if they could do their dinner-time chores, picking up some of the aforementioned odds and ends. It was fun to watch.

As soon as someone earned that mystery prize, another was put in it's place. In about a month's time we had: compliment a sibling, take out the trash, carry a laundry basket upstairs (even if it isn't yours), play a game peacefully with a sibling, pick up books off the floor. The possibilities are endless!

It's been a few days since anyone has completed the mystery chore; it must be a tough one! Yesterday one of the kids said, "I don't know what it could be. I've been doing everything I can think of; I guess I'll have to keep trying."

Why this idea didn't come to me sooner is a mystery to me.

Just Like Old Times

Tomorrow morning a case worker is coming by to visit. This will be about the 1,456th case worker visit we've entertained over the course of our journey; they've really become a non-event, for the most part. Even the kids don't seem to notice: they know to move out of the way of the cars coming down the driveway; to say "hello"; to be ready to give their names, grades, and ages when asked; to help a newbie find the "right" door - no one uses the front door; and to become scarce when there are "adult conversations" going on.

Our home has also become accustomed to our visitors. In the early days, to prepare for a case worker's appointment, the carpets bore vacuum marks, not a trace of dust was visible, the kitchen sink and counters were free of dirty dishes, toys were tidily stored in coordinated bins, beds were made, and the trash cans were all emptied. That was then.

This is now. Forty-some kids later. I might run the Dustbuster under and around the kitchen table to get the biggest of crumbs out of the way, baskets of unfolded laundry are stacked against the wall, and a path is cleared through the living room to a chair or two.

My nerves are a little jittery about tomorrow's visit: so far the downstairs, upstairs, and the stairs have been vacuumed; the bathroom is cleaned; a bulk of the laundry is done; the living room, the dining room, and even the vents have been dusted. It's just like old times.

Initially, there was much concern regarding the cleanliness of our home - on my part. The case workers seemed more interested to know that the children were safe, healthy, and happy - and seemed to ignore the dirty dishes and dust bunnies. This realization helped to change my perspective, and relax my cleaning standards.

But tomorrow is a different story. We are being interviewed, considered, and (I feel) scrutinized to see if we are an appropriate placement for a child. We've already said "yes" to this placement, and now - in a situation unusual to us - need to wait for the social workers to say "yes" to our family. And while it's a little nerve-wracking to think that our offer could be declined, there's a gratefulness that the system is paying so much attention to and taking such good care of this child.

If nothing else, the house will be clean - for a few hours, if we're lucky - and we will have known that we were obedient in our answer. And just like old times - all the times we've walked through, slogged along, and been carried - we will know that God 's plans are best.

 

Because I Said So

Coffee in hand, phone on vibrate, comfortably settled into a warm chair, enjoying the easy conversation and light laughter as ladies arrived for a time of prayer and study. For all of seven minutes.

With more than half a cup of coffee and before my conversations had barely begun, from within my purse the phone vibrated. It was the school.

With a touch of annoyance (this had better be an emergency) and a bit of fear (which child had done what and what were the repercussions), I answered the call out of earshot of the group.

"Mrs. Heisey, this is the school nurse. It's not an emergency." While I appreciate that preface in most circumstances, on that particular day the knee-jerk response that bubbled into my mouth - but was cut short by the biting of my tongue - was: "Then WHY are you calling me?"

She continued, "I have MD here with me and he's asked me to call you because he sat in something and needs another pair of jeans. Would you like to speak with him?" Well, since he's standing right there and hears what you are saying to me, you've kind of backed me into a corner. "Sure, put him on the phone, " I replied.

"Hey, Ms. D. We had donuts and I think I sat in some icing. I tried to clean it off and now my jeans are wet. Can you bring me another pair?"
"Was it someone's birthday? (like it mattered at this point how we got to the need for this phone conversation.)
"Yeah, well, I don't know. But can you bring me some pants?"
"I'm at a meeting. It might be twenty minutes until I get there." (giving him an out to let me off the hook.)
"That's okay. The nurse can call me down when you get here."
Dial tone.

On the ten minute drive home, I argued with myself. Don't I deserve that little bit of "me time?" With all the snow days and delayed openings our routine had been poked full of holes with scheduling and attitude adjustments. Tempers - yes, mine especially - were shorter, days seemed longer. This was a morning that was supposed to be worry-free; a few hours of unharried bliss.

As I pulled into the driveway, walked into the house and upstairs into MD's room, rummaged through his dresser to find a pair of jeans, the other side of the argument answered back. A reminder that this child has endured far too many empty words and broken promises.

This child had not heard from or seen his mother in six months. This is the same mother who told him he'd be home "soon"; that she now had a pool table in the house just waiting for him to come and use; that "at the next visit" she would bring him a phone, or a video game, or a new shirt, or one of his siblings who missed him.

None of those things ever happened.

This child needs to know that there are people who care about him, who are looking out for him, whom he can depend on. I want to be that for him.

So when I can demonstrate that with simply saying, "Yes. I'll be there in twenty minutes," and then actually showing up, I'm going to strive to do it every single time.