This was an easy night, an early night. We finished up the running around by 6:45; violin lessons and then everyone is home for the night. A nice dinner, no rushing anyone off to somewhere, even some conversation. The rest of the evening to be spent in leisure - some reading, one watching a video, one tinkering with a new invention.
In a fit of minor - but welcome - boredom, I went on the school website to check out the grades of our middle and high schoolers. All of our middle school kids have at least one class in which they are struggling to maintain a passing grade; we try to keep close tabs, encourage extra study time, and take away electronics as necessary. How in the course of a week did a few almost-passing grades become a train wreck?? When did we lose control? Or did we ever have it?
Our child who doesn't struggle also has grades dipping where they've never gone before. Missing a few days last week, trusting that work was made up, that everything is handed in. How do you account for these less-than-expected grades?
The pressure in my head begins.
Calling the most apathetic, and biggest transgressor of failing grades, into the room we ask, "Did you know this was your grade?" The answer, "No. Why? Am I missing something?" The child looks over my shoulder at the computer screen. "Oh, yeah. I was going to work on that and get it ready to hand in.. " I can feel my head pounding, "Oh, no. It was due three days ago. I don't care if you are up all night, it will be completed and handed in tomorrow."
Stan and I chatted for a few minutes before moving on with the evening. Washing some stray dishes seemed a productive activity and little sister joined me to ask if she could pack lunch for one of her siblings. Appreciating and wanting to encourage her thoughtfulness, I talked her through making the sandwich and finding snack containers. In the midst of the lunch-packing, with my hands in soapy water, she discovered that the snack bowl was almost empty and insisted that we fill it right then, and went into her typical determined-to-win-and-not-back-down-at-any-cost-put-on-your-gloves-for-a-fight routine. In between drying my hands and gathering and finishing the lunch packing, I tried to explain that all the snack containers were in the dishwasher - which was running. Her tirade continued and I remind her that I have said over and over that if the snack containers aren't returned, then there will be an empty bowl. She doesn't care, the lunch goes in the refrigerator, my head is close to exploding, and here comes another one.
Carrying a brother's lunchbox and tossing it onto the counter, "Here. He asked me to bring this to the kitchen." This lunchbox belongs to a child who is working on responsibility and self-advocacy; where is he? Why has a sibling taken on this task? As if sending a sibling to toss a lunchbox in my direction shows the least bit of accountability. Taking the lunchbox and finding the child, and knowing the answer already, I ask, "Why didn't you bring this yourself?" A blank stare and, "I don't know." End of conversation. I leave the lunchbox and take my steaming self back to the kitchen.
Dishes done, lunch fixings put away, wiping down counters, just about done for the night and another lunchbox shows up with another child. "Can you pack this?" Innocent enough question, except that we run a very routine-oriented ship around here; have to, want to, it feels better when we are all following the same script. It sounds rigid and even harsh: lunchboxes are to be unpacked and emptied when you come in from school. Lunches are usually packed before dinner; because, unlike this evening, we are usually going in about three different directions after dinner. For this child of mine, who knows the ropes, to come with an unemptied lunchbox at that time of the evening when the kitchen is cleaned and closed for the day, just makes me shake my head. My heavy, pounding head.
As the girls head upstairs for showers, I decide to sit and write this out. Maybe it's not so bad. Maybe I'm over-reacting about the little things. Maybe... one girl comes because she needs help with a stubborn button. Maybe there will... other girl comes to tell me that her ankle hurts and can she have it wrapped. Sure, okay. Girls settled and tucked in.
I look at Stan and say, "I need that phone to ring and have it be the agency needing us to take a baby. I need a diversion."
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Monday, March 23, 2015
Looking Beyond
Last night was hard. The past few weeks have been rough. For several months we've been struggling, me and our child.
For fifteen years we've maintained general order and routine in our home despite the comings and goings, and ups and downs of the foster care system and the amazing variety of personalities and behaviors that have lived here. When adopting from the foster care system, a commitment is made to live a lifetime of searching for a way to achieve a level of "normalcy" - although I am more and more convinced that "normal" is overrated.
It's a huge blessing to be able to protect my kids; it's a privilege to teach them to protect themselves and serve others; it's an honor to watch them grow and learn and serve. For some of our kids, we've had since before birth to begin nurturing and protecting; for some others, we entered their lives a bit later, after some initial trauma had already touched them - even before birth through substance use and abuse; for some it was years of abuse, neglect, abandonment, domestic violence - unthinkable, and seemingly un-survivable situations - until they were rescued.
Imagine never knowing that your parents were supposed to care for you, not care about you - that's a different concept altogether. But just care for you - food, shelter, warmth, clothing, school, safety; those basic things, imagine they are missing. Then imagine being rescued, someone caring enough to provide the basics. How would you respond? With gratefulness? With reciprocal kindness?
Perhaps not for a child for whom that kind of care feels uncomfortable, foreign, even scary. Anger, deceit, and destruction are the responses we've received.
Frustration stems from anger that things have changed; no matter how horrible and hurtful life was before, at least it was familiar. All this love and care - who can trust it? Maybe birth parents used the word "love" in their own way, different ways; and that love caused pain.
Deceit comes in the form of excuses and blaming, in the same way that adults in the birth family rationalized their own unhealthy and inexcusable behavior. No one is responsible for themselves or anyone else; every man for himself; if you can't trust anyone, you have to do what you need to do to survive, which includes lying and stealing - at home, at school, at a store - and becoming such a master of believability that they even believe their own lies.
Destruction of property, even their own, is a form of sabotage, of testing the strength of our mettle to stick it out. While deceit is a defensive method of protection, destruction is offensive - it is seeking to destroy whatever trust has been built. Once our family and home is ripped apart (at least in the perspective of this child), then we can be blamed for not being trustworthy or for being "bad" parents. And as a natural consequence, when trust is obliterated, privileges are revoked and boundaries tightened - because we love our kids and want to protect them. The desire and ministry we have to protect kids is often the very thing they are fighting against. The more we seek to love, nurture, and protect, the more broken and busted things around the house.
So last night we found some more of those stolen, hidden, and busted up things that had been lied about. When confronted, my child began to blame us for not providing needed things, then began to blame a sibling. When given instructions to get ready for bed, the child responded in anger and non-compliance; we responded with silence.
We allowed our child to be in the kitchen, staring me down while I packed lunches. The packing was slow and steady - to give me time for a conversation with God; I begged Him to give me some idea, some words, the right tone of voice. And God is faithful. He gave me a soft tone and clear words - if pressed to recall them now, I am unable - for just that situation.
Instead of confusion, there was clarity; instead of anger due to the destruction, there was sadness over what my child has suffered. I explained that, while a difficult past does not give an excuse for destructive behavior, it does help to explain it; and that while we don't understand the trauma, we are here now to demonstrate love and safety. And my child looked me in the eyes while I talked.
And then came the part of the conversation which always causes this child to tear up and quickly look away: "We love you. We chose you. We are your family, and you are stuck with us." Hard words to hear, hard words to understand, hard words for this child to believe.
For fifteen years we've maintained general order and routine in our home despite the comings and goings, and ups and downs of the foster care system and the amazing variety of personalities and behaviors that have lived here. When adopting from the foster care system, a commitment is made to live a lifetime of searching for a way to achieve a level of "normalcy" - although I am more and more convinced that "normal" is overrated.
It's a huge blessing to be able to protect my kids; it's a privilege to teach them to protect themselves and serve others; it's an honor to watch them grow and learn and serve. For some of our kids, we've had since before birth to begin nurturing and protecting; for some others, we entered their lives a bit later, after some initial trauma had already touched them - even before birth through substance use and abuse; for some it was years of abuse, neglect, abandonment, domestic violence - unthinkable, and seemingly un-survivable situations - until they were rescued.
Imagine never knowing that your parents were supposed to care for you, not care about you - that's a different concept altogether. But just care for you - food, shelter, warmth, clothing, school, safety; those basic things, imagine they are missing. Then imagine being rescued, someone caring enough to provide the basics. How would you respond? With gratefulness? With reciprocal kindness?
Perhaps not for a child for whom that kind of care feels uncomfortable, foreign, even scary. Anger, deceit, and destruction are the responses we've received.
Frustration stems from anger that things have changed; no matter how horrible and hurtful life was before, at least it was familiar. All this love and care - who can trust it? Maybe birth parents used the word "love" in their own way, different ways; and that love caused pain.
Deceit comes in the form of excuses and blaming, in the same way that adults in the birth family rationalized their own unhealthy and inexcusable behavior. No one is responsible for themselves or anyone else; every man for himself; if you can't trust anyone, you have to do what you need to do to survive, which includes lying and stealing - at home, at school, at a store - and becoming such a master of believability that they even believe their own lies.
Destruction of property, even their own, is a form of sabotage, of testing the strength of our mettle to stick it out. While deceit is a defensive method of protection, destruction is offensive - it is seeking to destroy whatever trust has been built. Once our family and home is ripped apart (at least in the perspective of this child), then we can be blamed for not being trustworthy or for being "bad" parents. And as a natural consequence, when trust is obliterated, privileges are revoked and boundaries tightened - because we love our kids and want to protect them. The desire and ministry we have to protect kids is often the very thing they are fighting against. The more we seek to love, nurture, and protect, the more broken and busted things around the house.
So last night we found some more of those stolen, hidden, and busted up things that had been lied about. When confronted, my child began to blame us for not providing needed things, then began to blame a sibling. When given instructions to get ready for bed, the child responded in anger and non-compliance; we responded with silence.
We allowed our child to be in the kitchen, staring me down while I packed lunches. The packing was slow and steady - to give me time for a conversation with God; I begged Him to give me some idea, some words, the right tone of voice. And God is faithful. He gave me a soft tone and clear words - if pressed to recall them now, I am unable - for just that situation.
Instead of confusion, there was clarity; instead of anger due to the destruction, there was sadness over what my child has suffered. I explained that, while a difficult past does not give an excuse for destructive behavior, it does help to explain it; and that while we don't understand the trauma, we are here now to demonstrate love and safety. And my child looked me in the eyes while I talked.
And then came the part of the conversation which always causes this child to tear up and quickly look away: "We love you. We chose you. We are your family, and you are stuck with us." Hard words to hear, hard words to understand, hard words for this child to believe.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Not A Story
This post needs to be different. Usually it's more of a story-telling. With story-telling I can enhance, leave out, or gloss over things; it's easier to use humor when it's just a story, easier to tug on heartstrings. I don't want to tug on heartstrings - I want to give a nuts and bolts perspective; and there really is no humor in this telling.
On the afternoon of December 15 a woman knocked on our door. She identified herself as a case worker for the Department of Public Welfare, and showed me her badge. She said that she had come to investigate a report of child abuse within our home. My heart dropped and my mind began spinning. What had I possibly done or said in public that someone could have misconstrued as abuse? Where had we been lately? Which of the kids had been under discipline? Had anyone sustained any injuries that had left suspicious marks? I thought all of this as she was asking, "May I please come in?"
I answered, "No." Most of the kids were home from school. I didn't know what this was about. This woman had no right to come into our home.
I asked who had made the report. She told me that that was confidential information. I asked her which child this was regarding, and when she told me I asked some follow up questions: Had the report been made by the child? No. Had the report been made by the child's school? No. And that was all she would tell me.
I then began to explain an altercation that had occurred over the weekend involving this child; an instance in which this child had become aggressive toward me. The case worker began to look over her notes and looked at me with a puzzled expression. This was not the incident that had been reported. She began to describe an event that had happened ten months previously; a situation that had precipitated allegations from the school and an investigation which was proven "unfounded." She asked me to recall the situation anyway, which I did while interjecting every sentence or so, "but this has already been investigated and we've been cleared." She stated several times that she didn't know anything about that.
About this time, Stan came home from picking up one of the older kids. They both saw me in a state of near hysteria, and I asked Stan to please speak to the case worker so I could go inside to check on the kids. Already crying and upset, I tried to calmly explain to them that the lady outside had come to make sure that all of our kids were safe and that she would be talking to each of them individually and that they should answer her questions honestly. This was especially hard to explain to our sons who had already been removed from unsafe situations; it broke my heart to have to put into their thinking that our house could potentially also be unsafe.
Starting with the oldest and working our way down, the case worker questioned each child. Most of them weren't phased. However, one of the boys became indignant. As the case worker was leaving he said, "I have a question. Why are you here?" To which she answered, "It's my job to make sure everyone is safe." He replied, "No, why are you HERE." He wanted to know why she had to come to a home, a family, that he - all the kids - knew was safe. She had no answer.
I asked what we should expect to happen next as this was the first time we were being investigated by DPW and not Children and Youth Services. She said that she had thirty days to complete the investigation and that we would be notified of the outcome by mail. I asked what else might happen. Within the hearing of all of our children she said, "Well, we could come and remove your foster children."
We could lose our children. We could lose our foster care license. We could lose the opportunity to continue to care for hurting kids.
I am embarrassed to try to portray just how distraught I was. I was sobbing, I was gasping, I was moaning, I couldn't get off the sofa. And the lady was still there and my kids were all watching. I just didn't know how to function and live under the threats that had been explained.
The next day I contacted our church leaders to let them know, and to have Stan and me replaced in our roles as basketball coach and children's teacher. The immediate response from the church was: We believe in you, we support you, we love you, we are praying for and with you.
As I reached out to certain groups of friends, the response was the same. I am again embarrassed to say that I was just a little taken by surprise. After all, we'd been investigated at least five times before, weren't people going to get suspicious? How could they really know what goes on in our home?
And those were the fears that dominated my thinking for several weeks. Why were we being investigated again for the same situation? Were there unanswered questions? Had someone "found" something that could prove us guilty this time? How many times would we be called on allegations before someone just got tired of it and figured we must be guilty? How thick was our file? Did someone keep track of how often we were investigated? Was someone watching my kids wherever they went? It sounds like I was paranoid; I probably was, a little bit.
I counted out the business days from December 15. I allowed for every possible holiday and weekend. I landed on February 4. I accounted for processing and mail delivery. And I waited.
In mid-February we had not heard anything and I began to leave voicemail and email messages for the case worker who had been to our home. Not one message was answered. I felt somewhat more at ease that we were not going to lose our kids or our certification. Now it just became a matter of dignity. Who was this woman to put our life on hold? Didn't she understand the cloud of uncertainty and embarrassment I was living under?
I prayed. I prayed hard and waited to hear something, anything. I prayed alone, I prayed with friends, I prayed and cried, I prayed without words. What was God saying, teaching? Why wasn't he answering? Was I supposed to stop pestering DPW for an answer? How long? If not that, then what was I supposed to do? Nothing?
Among other things, I remember clearly realizing how truly blessed we are to have our seven children. How amazing it is to give birth and how doubly amazing it is to experience adoption. I was able to focus on our kids, to see them and appreciate them as they've been created. I was able to take some time to learn and understand some new ideas about adoption and trauma. I believe God used this waiting time to prepare me for... well, for whatever was to come.
That brings me to today, March 10. Today I actually spoke with the case worker. She didn't acknowledge having received my many messages, she didn't apologize for - or even try to explain - the length of time it had taken to complete the report. She simply stated that she was holding in her hands right then our completed investigation which she would be "putting in the mail today." I thanked her, wait, no, I really did, I thanked her. And I almost hung up, but then quickly asked, "Can you please tell me the results of the investigation?" "It's unfounded."
A weight lifted just then. The cloud dissipated. I was excited at the thought of having our home be open again. I could hardly wait to send a message to our agency, "Please consider us for placements, we are cleared!"
God is faithful. I knew this all along. People reminded me of that for the past three months. I had been reading it for myself in the Old Testament prophets to replay those accounts. Real life accounts, not just stories.
And so now our life continues. Maybe sometimes it's just a story, maybe sometimes it's not.
On the afternoon of December 15 a woman knocked on our door. She identified herself as a case worker for the Department of Public Welfare, and showed me her badge. She said that she had come to investigate a report of child abuse within our home. My heart dropped and my mind began spinning. What had I possibly done or said in public that someone could have misconstrued as abuse? Where had we been lately? Which of the kids had been under discipline? Had anyone sustained any injuries that had left suspicious marks? I thought all of this as she was asking, "May I please come in?"
I answered, "No." Most of the kids were home from school. I didn't know what this was about. This woman had no right to come into our home.
I asked who had made the report. She told me that that was confidential information. I asked her which child this was regarding, and when she told me I asked some follow up questions: Had the report been made by the child? No. Had the report been made by the child's school? No. And that was all she would tell me.
I then began to explain an altercation that had occurred over the weekend involving this child; an instance in which this child had become aggressive toward me. The case worker began to look over her notes and looked at me with a puzzled expression. This was not the incident that had been reported. She began to describe an event that had happened ten months previously; a situation that had precipitated allegations from the school and an investigation which was proven "unfounded." She asked me to recall the situation anyway, which I did while interjecting every sentence or so, "but this has already been investigated and we've been cleared." She stated several times that she didn't know anything about that.
About this time, Stan came home from picking up one of the older kids. They both saw me in a state of near hysteria, and I asked Stan to please speak to the case worker so I could go inside to check on the kids. Already crying and upset, I tried to calmly explain to them that the lady outside had come to make sure that all of our kids were safe and that she would be talking to each of them individually and that they should answer her questions honestly. This was especially hard to explain to our sons who had already been removed from unsafe situations; it broke my heart to have to put into their thinking that our house could potentially also be unsafe.
Starting with the oldest and working our way down, the case worker questioned each child. Most of them weren't phased. However, one of the boys became indignant. As the case worker was leaving he said, "I have a question. Why are you here?" To which she answered, "It's my job to make sure everyone is safe." He replied, "No, why are you HERE." He wanted to know why she had to come to a home, a family, that he - all the kids - knew was safe. She had no answer.
I asked what we should expect to happen next as this was the first time we were being investigated by DPW and not Children and Youth Services. She said that she had thirty days to complete the investigation and that we would be notified of the outcome by mail. I asked what else might happen. Within the hearing of all of our children she said, "Well, we could come and remove your foster children."
We could lose our children. We could lose our foster care license. We could lose the opportunity to continue to care for hurting kids.
I am embarrassed to try to portray just how distraught I was. I was sobbing, I was gasping, I was moaning, I couldn't get off the sofa. And the lady was still there and my kids were all watching. I just didn't know how to function and live under the threats that had been explained.
The next day I contacted our church leaders to let them know, and to have Stan and me replaced in our roles as basketball coach and children's teacher. The immediate response from the church was: We believe in you, we support you, we love you, we are praying for and with you.
As I reached out to certain groups of friends, the response was the same. I am again embarrassed to say that I was just a little taken by surprise. After all, we'd been investigated at least five times before, weren't people going to get suspicious? How could they really know what goes on in our home?
And those were the fears that dominated my thinking for several weeks. Why were we being investigated again for the same situation? Were there unanswered questions? Had someone "found" something that could prove us guilty this time? How many times would we be called on allegations before someone just got tired of it and figured we must be guilty? How thick was our file? Did someone keep track of how often we were investigated? Was someone watching my kids wherever they went? It sounds like I was paranoid; I probably was, a little bit.
I counted out the business days from December 15. I allowed for every possible holiday and weekend. I landed on February 4. I accounted for processing and mail delivery. And I waited.
In mid-February we had not heard anything and I began to leave voicemail and email messages for the case worker who had been to our home. Not one message was answered. I felt somewhat more at ease that we were not going to lose our kids or our certification. Now it just became a matter of dignity. Who was this woman to put our life on hold? Didn't she understand the cloud of uncertainty and embarrassment I was living under?
I prayed. I prayed hard and waited to hear something, anything. I prayed alone, I prayed with friends, I prayed and cried, I prayed without words. What was God saying, teaching? Why wasn't he answering? Was I supposed to stop pestering DPW for an answer? How long? If not that, then what was I supposed to do? Nothing?
Among other things, I remember clearly realizing how truly blessed we are to have our seven children. How amazing it is to give birth and how doubly amazing it is to experience adoption. I was able to focus on our kids, to see them and appreciate them as they've been created. I was able to take some time to learn and understand some new ideas about adoption and trauma. I believe God used this waiting time to prepare me for... well, for whatever was to come.
That brings me to today, March 10. Today I actually spoke with the case worker. She didn't acknowledge having received my many messages, she didn't apologize for - or even try to explain - the length of time it had taken to complete the report. She simply stated that she was holding in her hands right then our completed investigation which she would be "putting in the mail today." I thanked her, wait, no, I really did, I thanked her. And I almost hung up, but then quickly asked, "Can you please tell me the results of the investigation?" "It's unfounded."
A weight lifted just then. The cloud dissipated. I was excited at the thought of having our home be open again. I could hardly wait to send a message to our agency, "Please consider us for placements, we are cleared!"
God is faithful. I knew this all along. People reminded me of that for the past three months. I had been reading it for myself in the Old Testament prophets to replay those accounts. Real life accounts, not just stories.
And so now our life continues. Maybe sometimes it's just a story, maybe sometimes it's not.
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