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.