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.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, December 2, 2013
No Choice
Everything's been building up, leading to this day - this hard, happy, sad day. So much work, love, energy, trust; again the questions: was it worth it? did it matter? will any of it stick?
Eleven months after her arrival, Little Sweetheart's time in our home ended. And her life with her birth family began, continued; all the visits, paperwork, county protocol, and finally the judge finalizing what we all knew was coming.
While my head understands - yet again - that children need primarily to be safe, my heart aches with the knowledge that children NEED and deserve so much more. LS needs and deserves to be read to every day and have someone cheer her on as she becomes a reader; to have kisses and hugs good-night and reassurrance that we will "see each other in the morning"; clear and consistent boundaries and consequences; a calm and peaceful haven where love is unconditional.
Just from plain old-fashioned observation and a mother's intuition, our LS has entered a place where some of those needs will not be met all the time; some of them rarely at all. Her birth family is not "bad", they are not unfit or unkind; in fact, a common statement by case workers, therapists, and me has been, "He (birth dad) is a really nice guy."
From the beginning, there have been no concerns regarding housing, employment, or safety; some of the biggest hurdles for many familes whose children are in the system. These should be reasons to feel positive about the situation instead of lead to uncertainty and questions: Why, if things were so stable, did it take eight months to have overnight visits? Why, if these people are responsible and dependable, was paperwork incomplete or overdue? Why, if LS was really wanted, were phone calls not returned?
The day before Thanksgiving, a rainy, dreary day, some of the kids went along to take LS home. Having not been to the house, and being unsure of what the situation might be, the kids said their good-byes on the sidewalk by the car. LS ran ahead as MD and I carried some boxes a few houses down and followed her up onto the front porch where two women - one her step-mother - stood smoking. Neither one greeted LS and only spoke to me when I asked where we should put the boxes: "Go ahead in and put them by the front door." LS had already found a seat on the sofa in front of the television and seemed not to notice the other people in the house; which made sense because no one seemed to notice her. Not one person greeted her by name or welcomed her home.
With another load of boxes to retrieve, we went out the front door onto the porch where the women continued to smoke and make no move to go inside with LS.
MD stayed at the car while I took the last load, this time into the house without stopping to try to talk with her step-mother. LS remained seated alone on the sofa, the television seemingly the only company despite random people walking through the house, one of which - a woman who didn't address LS directly, but looked at her and then me and then the boxes by the door - said, "Well, I guess they were really tired of you, they even dropped off all your stuff!"
This person might have been someone LS knew, they might have had a conversation while I was bringing boxes, the woman might have been kidding, LS might not have heard her comment. In that instant, none of that registered or even if it had, was significant. In that instant LS was still mine, her heart was mine to protect.
Before my emotions unraveled, I called LS over to where I was standing by the front door. We got eye-to-eye. We hugged, tight. We kissed, hard. We said a prayer and said good-bye.
I left the house, muttered "Happy Thanksgiving" to the two women still smoking on the porch and pulled it together as I walked to the car where five more of my precious kids were waiting. My kids, MY kids - none of which I would ever choose to leave in such a situation, in a place that appeared clean and safe but felt so cold and lonely. In a place where I had no choice but to leave our LS.
Eleven months after her arrival, Little Sweetheart's time in our home ended. And her life with her birth family began, continued; all the visits, paperwork, county protocol, and finally the judge finalizing what we all knew was coming.
While my head understands - yet again - that children need primarily to be safe, my heart aches with the knowledge that children NEED and deserve so much more. LS needs and deserves to be read to every day and have someone cheer her on as she becomes a reader; to have kisses and hugs good-night and reassurrance that we will "see each other in the morning"; clear and consistent boundaries and consequences; a calm and peaceful haven where love is unconditional.
Just from plain old-fashioned observation and a mother's intuition, our LS has entered a place where some of those needs will not be met all the time; some of them rarely at all. Her birth family is not "bad", they are not unfit or unkind; in fact, a common statement by case workers, therapists, and me has been, "He (birth dad) is a really nice guy."
From the beginning, there have been no concerns regarding housing, employment, or safety; some of the biggest hurdles for many familes whose children are in the system. These should be reasons to feel positive about the situation instead of lead to uncertainty and questions: Why, if things were so stable, did it take eight months to have overnight visits? Why, if these people are responsible and dependable, was paperwork incomplete or overdue? Why, if LS was really wanted, were phone calls not returned?
The day before Thanksgiving, a rainy, dreary day, some of the kids went along to take LS home. Having not been to the house, and being unsure of what the situation might be, the kids said their good-byes on the sidewalk by the car. LS ran ahead as MD and I carried some boxes a few houses down and followed her up onto the front porch where two women - one her step-mother - stood smoking. Neither one greeted LS and only spoke to me when I asked where we should put the boxes: "Go ahead in and put them by the front door." LS had already found a seat on the sofa in front of the television and seemed not to notice the other people in the house; which made sense because no one seemed to notice her. Not one person greeted her by name or welcomed her home.
With another load of boxes to retrieve, we went out the front door onto the porch where the women continued to smoke and make no move to go inside with LS.
MD stayed at the car while I took the last load, this time into the house without stopping to try to talk with her step-mother. LS remained seated alone on the sofa, the television seemingly the only company despite random people walking through the house, one of which - a woman who didn't address LS directly, but looked at her and then me and then the boxes by the door - said, "Well, I guess they were really tired of you, they even dropped off all your stuff!"
This person might have been someone LS knew, they might have had a conversation while I was bringing boxes, the woman might have been kidding, LS might not have heard her comment. In that instant, none of that registered or even if it had, was significant. In that instant LS was still mine, her heart was mine to protect.
Before my emotions unraveled, I called LS over to where I was standing by the front door. We got eye-to-eye. We hugged, tight. We kissed, hard. We said a prayer and said good-bye.
I left the house, muttered "Happy Thanksgiving" to the two women still smoking on the porch and pulled it together as I walked to the car where five more of my precious kids were waiting. My kids, MY kids - none of which I would ever choose to leave in such a situation, in a place that appeared clean and safe but felt so cold and lonely. In a place where I had no choice but to leave our LS.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Family Matters
While our new guy - LB (littlest brother) - will become a Heisey within the next few months, at eleven years old he will also retain the identity of and some connections with his birth family. He called his great-uncle this morning, which he does a few times a month, and chatted about school and the deer he has seen in our backyard lately. Then I heard LB ask about his "mommy."
Tomorrow is the four month anniversary of having LB as a member of our family. For the first ten days he was a "visitor" just passing through. He needed to know how to refer to Stan and me, so he adopted MD's handles of "Mr. S and Ms. D." Suited us fine.
When we made the decision that LB would not be just a visitor, but rather our son, we explained to him that we were now "mom and dad"; that we understood and respected that he has birth parents and a birth family. We gave him the option of calling us "mom and dad" whenever he chose. Through the summer we remained "Mr. S and Ms. D."
As I talk with the kids I refer to Stan as "daddy", and so around the beginning of the school year LB also used "daddy" when talking about Stan, but not when talking to him. Within a couple of weeks that changed and Stan solidly became "daddy" to LB.
I continued to be "Ms. D" and tried my best to console myself: the trauma that LB had suffered had been largely caused by his father so it made sense that he might attach to Stan more quickly; LB's relationship with his birth mother was somewhat confusing as he has some sort of bond with her but also suffered neglect and so learned to not depend on her; he has more occasions to refer to (and therefore reinforce) me as "Ms. D" since I am home and administering discipline more often than Stan.
But I wanted to be "mommy." My heart ached to be "mommy" to him.
And it happened last week. Most unexpectedly. While in the midst of a less-than-happy discipline situation. I became "mommy", not only once by accident but several times over in a single conversation. Honestly, it became difficult for me to focus on the homework issue at hand while my heart did backflips and cartwheels.
For the past week my name has been used and over-used by LB; he is pouring the foundation, he knows that I am dependable and will not allow him to be harmed, that we are his last stop, his forever family. I am and will always be his "mommy."
So this morning when I heard LB ask his great-uncle about his mommy, my head understood that he will always wonder about his birth mother, but selfishly my heart sank a little.
A few minutes later LB hung up the phone, shoved on his jacket, grabbed his bookbag, and headed out the door with a cheerful, "Good-bye, Mommy!"
Backflips and cartwheels again.
Tomorrow is the four month anniversary of having LB as a member of our family. For the first ten days he was a "visitor" just passing through. He needed to know how to refer to Stan and me, so he adopted MD's handles of "Mr. S and Ms. D." Suited us fine.
When we made the decision that LB would not be just a visitor, but rather our son, we explained to him that we were now "mom and dad"; that we understood and respected that he has birth parents and a birth family. We gave him the option of calling us "mom and dad" whenever he chose. Through the summer we remained "Mr. S and Ms. D."
As I talk with the kids I refer to Stan as "daddy", and so around the beginning of the school year LB also used "daddy" when talking about Stan, but not when talking to him. Within a couple of weeks that changed and Stan solidly became "daddy" to LB.
I continued to be "Ms. D" and tried my best to console myself: the trauma that LB had suffered had been largely caused by his father so it made sense that he might attach to Stan more quickly; LB's relationship with his birth mother was somewhat confusing as he has some sort of bond with her but also suffered neglect and so learned to not depend on her; he has more occasions to refer to (and therefore reinforce) me as "Ms. D" since I am home and administering discipline more often than Stan.
But I wanted to be "mommy." My heart ached to be "mommy" to him.
And it happened last week. Most unexpectedly. While in the midst of a less-than-happy discipline situation. I became "mommy", not only once by accident but several times over in a single conversation. Honestly, it became difficult for me to focus on the homework issue at hand while my heart did backflips and cartwheels.
For the past week my name has been used and over-used by LB; he is pouring the foundation, he knows that I am dependable and will not allow him to be harmed, that we are his last stop, his forever family. I am and will always be his "mommy."
So this morning when I heard LB ask his great-uncle about his mommy, my head understood that he will always wonder about his birth mother, but selfishly my heart sank a little.
A few minutes later LB hung up the phone, shoved on his jacket, grabbed his bookbag, and headed out the door with a cheerful, "Good-bye, Mommy!"
Backflips and cartwheels again.
Friday, September 27, 2013
And I Never Will
Last night there was a third family planning meeting for LS; that's two too many, at least in the opinion of most of those in attendance. The discussion centered on the fact that we've all lived through nine months of a foster care placement that doesn't have to be.
At two months in, her birth dad was identified as a reunification resource and had only a few very simple steps to take in order to have LS move home with his family. Those few simple steps have yet to be completed.
And I just don't understand.
Why it took four months to provide a copy of the lease to Children and Youth? Housing and employment are usually huge hurdles as parents work to get their children back. Not in this case. Rather the "hurdle" was that the lease is printed on legal size paper, and the printer doesn't accommodate that size.
Why there were missed visits with LS when a social worker practically delivered her to your backyard? Reasons were readily given: traffic, a car fire, unable to call to adjust the visit time because phone was out of range.
Why phone calls from the social worker weren't returned to schedule a time to have the house inspected which would allow for unsupervised home visits? Only when cornered by family members during the second family meeting, after two weeks worth of waiting, was an inspection appointment scheduled.
Why when given the go-ahead to visit with LS that very weekend, there was not a phone call for nearly two weeks? "The foster family was out of town" -- true, and reachable by the e-mail and cell phone contact information that was provided. "I left a message" -- true, to ask to speak with LS and not to schedule a visit; not to mention that the message was left with less than twenty-four hours notice of when a visit would need to occur.
Why LS only had visits on two out of five weekends? Excuses ranged from ill health, to faulty phone service, to leaving a message on Friday night for a Saturday visit, to blaming LS for hanging up the phone too quickly and before arrangements could be made. Never once was there a call back after phone service improved or to follow up on a quick hang up.
Here are other things I don't understand:
Why, when given our phone number, it took six months for you to call LS and then only after prompted by the social workers.
Why you don't call LS every day, multiple times a day. Were our roles reversed, I can only imagine that I'd be on the phone with my child when she woke up, got home from school, finished homework, and before bedtime EVERY DAY. Someone would have to tell me to STOP calling... not prompt me to start.
How you can stand to be away from you daughter, when she could and should be home with you right now is something I cannot understand; have not understood with any other birth parents... and I never will.
At two months in, her birth dad was identified as a reunification resource and had only a few very simple steps to take in order to have LS move home with his family. Those few simple steps have yet to be completed.
And I just don't understand.
Why it took four months to provide a copy of the lease to Children and Youth? Housing and employment are usually huge hurdles as parents work to get their children back. Not in this case. Rather the "hurdle" was that the lease is printed on legal size paper, and the printer doesn't accommodate that size.
Why there were missed visits with LS when a social worker practically delivered her to your backyard? Reasons were readily given: traffic, a car fire, unable to call to adjust the visit time because phone was out of range.
Why phone calls from the social worker weren't returned to schedule a time to have the house inspected which would allow for unsupervised home visits? Only when cornered by family members during the second family meeting, after two weeks worth of waiting, was an inspection appointment scheduled.
Why when given the go-ahead to visit with LS that very weekend, there was not a phone call for nearly two weeks? "The foster family was out of town" -- true, and reachable by the e-mail and cell phone contact information that was provided. "I left a message" -- true, to ask to speak with LS and not to schedule a visit; not to mention that the message was left with less than twenty-four hours notice of when a visit would need to occur.
Why LS only had visits on two out of five weekends? Excuses ranged from ill health, to faulty phone service, to leaving a message on Friday night for a Saturday visit, to blaming LS for hanging up the phone too quickly and before arrangements could be made. Never once was there a call back after phone service improved or to follow up on a quick hang up.
Here are other things I don't understand:
Why, when given our phone number, it took six months for you to call LS and then only after prompted by the social workers.
Why you don't call LS every day, multiple times a day. Were our roles reversed, I can only imagine that I'd be on the phone with my child when she woke up, got home from school, finished homework, and before bedtime EVERY DAY. Someone would have to tell me to STOP calling... not prompt me to start.
How you can stand to be away from you daughter, when she could and should be home with you right now is something I cannot understand; have not understood with any other birth parents... and I never will.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Fourteen Steps
On a Sunday morning - a typical-for-our-family-of-ten - Sunday morning a few months ago when I had finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, in the hearing of my precious offspring I made a comment something like, "Well, I guess I could write a book about how to get ready for church in fourteen easy steps."
Not all of our kids are developmentally astute enough to pick up on subtle sarcasm, but the few who are just kind of stared and chuckled nervously. It must have been apparent that the sarcasm was borne out of fairly intense frustration.
Our daughter who is never at a loss for words, but often lacking interpersonal tact, asked, "What are the fourteen steps?"
Our daughter clearly inherited her gift of gab from her mother who was glad to oblige her, and the rest of the family now held captive in the kitchen, with a tirade of epic proportion that went a little something like this:
Step 1 - get out of bed forty minutes early to tell the girls to be quiet until 8:00
Step 2 - turn on the shower
Step 3 - answer the knock on the bedroom door from youngest daughter who is tattling on the other sisters for not staying in their beds
Step 4 - walk youngest daughter back the bedroom, stop in the hallway to take laundry to son's room
Step 5 - get in and quickly out of the shower to respond to the argument in the girls' bedroom
Step 6 - get girls up and moving (in the right direction) and knock on the boys' bedroom doors in a feeble attempt to rouse them (somehow the ruckus from their sisters' room doesn't phase them)
Step 7 - return to the bathroom for a towel for my dripping wet hair, trailed by one son who needs to use our bathroom since a sister is "hogging" the hallway bathroom
Step 8 - resume combing hair, glance at son's outfit as he leaves the bathroom, escort him to his room to find some clothes that are clean and without rips and holes
Step 9 - another son appears at the bedroom door to ask if he can open another box of cereal for breakfast
Step 10 - on the way back to my bathroom, remind daughter that she needs to wear a sweater with "that" dress, engage in a five minute knock-down-drag-out fight about said sweater which concludes with daughter slamming the bedroom door and yelling that she "is not going to church at all then" as I continue on my way to the bathroom
Step 11 - get dressed (except for shoes - and maybe jewelry if I'm lucky) enough to walk down the hall to the kids' bathroom in order to break up a quarrel-bordering-on-fist-fight over toothpaste between two of the boys
Step 12 - back to my room to plug in the flat iron and put on some make-up and hold a conversation about where one might be able to locate her missing Bible with the daughter who has followed me
Step 13 - send daughter on her way, find and put on shoes, stop to turn off lights in two of the kids' bedrooms and the water faucet in the bathroom
Step 14 - walk downstairs where my family waits for me to FINALLY be ready for church.
Not all of our kids are developmentally astute enough to pick up on subtle sarcasm, but the few who are just kind of stared and chuckled nervously. It must have been apparent that the sarcasm was borne out of fairly intense frustration.
Our daughter who is never at a loss for words, but often lacking interpersonal tact, asked, "What are the fourteen steps?"
Our daughter clearly inherited her gift of gab from her mother who was glad to oblige her, and the rest of the family now held captive in the kitchen, with a tirade of epic proportion that went a little something like this:
Step 1 - get out of bed forty minutes early to tell the girls to be quiet until 8:00
Step 2 - turn on the shower
Step 3 - answer the knock on the bedroom door from youngest daughter who is tattling on the other sisters for not staying in their beds
Step 4 - walk youngest daughter back the bedroom, stop in the hallway to take laundry to son's room
Step 5 - get in and quickly out of the shower to respond to the argument in the girls' bedroom
Step 6 - get girls up and moving (in the right direction) and knock on the boys' bedroom doors in a feeble attempt to rouse them (somehow the ruckus from their sisters' room doesn't phase them)
Step 7 - return to the bathroom for a towel for my dripping wet hair, trailed by one son who needs to use our bathroom since a sister is "hogging" the hallway bathroom
Step 8 - resume combing hair, glance at son's outfit as he leaves the bathroom, escort him to his room to find some clothes that are clean and without rips and holes
Step 9 - another son appears at the bedroom door to ask if he can open another box of cereal for breakfast
Step 10 - on the way back to my bathroom, remind daughter that she needs to wear a sweater with "that" dress, engage in a five minute knock-down-drag-out fight about said sweater which concludes with daughter slamming the bedroom door and yelling that she "is not going to church at all then" as I continue on my way to the bathroom
Step 11 - get dressed (except for shoes - and maybe jewelry if I'm lucky) enough to walk down the hall to the kids' bathroom in order to break up a quarrel-bordering-on-fist-fight over toothpaste between two of the boys
Step 12 - back to my room to plug in the flat iron and put on some make-up and hold a conversation about where one might be able to locate her missing Bible with the daughter who has followed me
Step 13 - send daughter on her way, find and put on shoes, stop to turn off lights in two of the kids' bedrooms and the water faucet in the bathroom
Step 14 - walk downstairs where my family waits for me to FINALLY be ready for church.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Dreams
Next week is a court date for Mister D. It's been seven months and so much has changed, and yet so little has changed.
MD was placed with us in February because he had missed more than fifty days of school so far in the school year, and because although his case had been taken to truancy hearings, his mother did not appear to explain his absences.
Upon registering for and beginning school here, and then being tested for appropriate class placement, it became obvious that MD had missed way more than just fifty days of school. Assigned to the fifth grade, MD could not identify all the letters of the alphabet and did not know what a subtraction sign was. In an effort to provide learning support services for learning disablilities, the school - through thorough testing - instead ruled out all disabilities and rather settled upon the conclusion that MD's severe learning deficient was the result of a lack of school attendance.
Education was not all that MD lacked; he had had very limited exposure to life in general. He could not tell time or know how to use a calendar; didn't know how many days were in a week. The concept of three meals a day at routine times was foreign, and not having the television on non-stop was culture shock. Short trips to the grocery store became full-fledged field trips as we pointed out signs, and stores, and prices, and products. Questions like: "Are you scared to drive in the dark?" - "Who taught you to read?" - "How far is it to California?" - "Will we go to school tomorrow?" were on-going, which was a wonderful glimpse into how curious he really was; but also sad as we realized how much he had missed.
When we reserved a house in Ocean City for week this summer and told the kids about it, MD's questions were: "How deep is the ocean?" - "Can we swim in it?" - "Can you see the end of it?" - "Will there be a diving board into the ocean?" These sorts of conversations continued and more were added when we showed him a youtube video of the ocean; he hadn't realized there would be waves.
When we arrived at our ocean house, walked down to the beach, and stood with our feet in the waves, he looked at me with a huge grin spreading across his face and said, "Ms. D, all this time we've been talking about the ocean and now our dream has come true." And all that I could say was, "Yeah, buddy, our dream come true."
What a precious week that was - watching him swim in the ocean, jump the waves, get buried by and bury the other kids in the sand, shop on the boardwalk, chase seagulls - full of firsts for him.
These past seven months have been filled with revelations for MD. He has a best buddy within walking distance of our house and has earned our trust to be able to be very independent; on the playground he is revered and well-liked for his basketball skills and friendly, gentle manner; teachers continue to find creative ways to help him close the gap (despite not having an IEP, MD receives all sorts of special help) because they see a student who is willing to work and eager to learn. It seems that the little bit of care and attention MD receives is multiplied in his efforts to grow and take advantage of these opportunities.
All the while, MD has a family who loves him and wants him to come back home. And when asked, MD will tell us that he wants to go home, but he also wants to be able to go to school here. He understands that that cannot happen, but also that it is fully out of his control, that his mother's efforts - or lack thereof - will control the outcome.
His mother's efforts have been minimal. From the beginning, visits for MD and his mother have been on-going, but she has not been consistent; it's been over a month since she's seen him. There are other concerns which case workers need to address, but find nearly impossible since it is rare to be able to contact his mother by phone.
On Monday, the judge will probably decide that MD needs to remain here with us; it is doubtful that his mother will even attend the court hearing. That will give us three more months of life with MD, three more months of speaking love and care into his life, of teachers and friends encouraging and nurturing him, of exposure to life and all it has to offer.
But it will also be three more months of wondering - will his mother show up? does she really care about him and his dreams?
MD was placed with us in February because he had missed more than fifty days of school so far in the school year, and because although his case had been taken to truancy hearings, his mother did not appear to explain his absences.
Upon registering for and beginning school here, and then being tested for appropriate class placement, it became obvious that MD had missed way more than just fifty days of school. Assigned to the fifth grade, MD could not identify all the letters of the alphabet and did not know what a subtraction sign was. In an effort to provide learning support services for learning disablilities, the school - through thorough testing - instead ruled out all disabilities and rather settled upon the conclusion that MD's severe learning deficient was the result of a lack of school attendance.
Education was not all that MD lacked; he had had very limited exposure to life in general. He could not tell time or know how to use a calendar; didn't know how many days were in a week. The concept of three meals a day at routine times was foreign, and not having the television on non-stop was culture shock. Short trips to the grocery store became full-fledged field trips as we pointed out signs, and stores, and prices, and products. Questions like: "Are you scared to drive in the dark?" - "Who taught you to read?" - "How far is it to California?" - "Will we go to school tomorrow?" were on-going, which was a wonderful glimpse into how curious he really was; but also sad as we realized how much he had missed.
When we reserved a house in Ocean City for week this summer and told the kids about it, MD's questions were: "How deep is the ocean?" - "Can we swim in it?" - "Can you see the end of it?" - "Will there be a diving board into the ocean?" These sorts of conversations continued and more were added when we showed him a youtube video of the ocean; he hadn't realized there would be waves.
When we arrived at our ocean house, walked down to the beach, and stood with our feet in the waves, he looked at me with a huge grin spreading across his face and said, "Ms. D, all this time we've been talking about the ocean and now our dream has come true." And all that I could say was, "Yeah, buddy, our dream come true."
What a precious week that was - watching him swim in the ocean, jump the waves, get buried by and bury the other kids in the sand, shop on the boardwalk, chase seagulls - full of firsts for him.
These past seven months have been filled with revelations for MD. He has a best buddy within walking distance of our house and has earned our trust to be able to be very independent; on the playground he is revered and well-liked for his basketball skills and friendly, gentle manner; teachers continue to find creative ways to help him close the gap (despite not having an IEP, MD receives all sorts of special help) because they see a student who is willing to work and eager to learn. It seems that the little bit of care and attention MD receives is multiplied in his efforts to grow and take advantage of these opportunities.
All the while, MD has a family who loves him and wants him to come back home. And when asked, MD will tell us that he wants to go home, but he also wants to be able to go to school here. He understands that that cannot happen, but also that it is fully out of his control, that his mother's efforts - or lack thereof - will control the outcome.
His mother's efforts have been minimal. From the beginning, visits for MD and his mother have been on-going, but she has not been consistent; it's been over a month since she's seen him. There are other concerns which case workers need to address, but find nearly impossible since it is rare to be able to contact his mother by phone.
On Monday, the judge will probably decide that MD needs to remain here with us; it is doubtful that his mother will even attend the court hearing. That will give us three more months of life with MD, three more months of speaking love and care into his life, of teachers and friends encouraging and nurturing him, of exposure to life and all it has to offer.
But it will also be three more months of wondering - will his mother show up? does she really care about him and his dreams?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)