Giving Back

Wednesday, February 27, 2013 was the first time I met my son. I didn't know he was my son; I had been led to believe that he would not become my son. But I'll let you in on a little something: EVERYTIME a child comes into our home one of my first thoughts is, "Could this be my next son or daughter? Will this one stay forever?"

When the phone rang that afternoon and we were asked to take a placement, the immediate answer was yes. And then we asked the necessary questions: boy or girl (so we could shuffle bedrooms as needed), age (so we could run out to buy diapers and formula if needed), any idea of the length of the placement.

Late that evening eleven year old MD was dropped off with just an extra outfit in a duffle bag. The first two questions were answered. The third answer was vague - as usual, but fairly definite - a court hearing was scheduled for the following Monday and it was presumed that the family would be reunified at that time.

Five days. MD bunked in one of the other boys' rooms on a trundle bed - which was an acceptable situation for a short-term placement and didn't necessitate a bedroom shuffle. The next day we went shopping for some basics to make life more comfortable for the next five days.

Monday came and with it another phone call. Reunification was denied. The placement would continue. Visits with birth mom were scheduled. We made an appointment with the school district for enrollment. We shuffled bedrooms, slid the trundle bed away, pulled out a dresser and filled it with more clothing.

During the next months Stan and I would occasionally stop and look at each other to say, "Wonder when it's all going to hit the fan with this one..." And then months became a year and more, and this child continued to thrive. And nothing ever hit any fan.

Teachers, neighbors, friends from church all described him the same way - respectful, humble, polite, kind, mature, responsible. He worked hard to overcome educational deficits. He was extremely teachable; and also loved being a teacher and coach. He excelled in art and athletics. And still the other shoe... heck, the first shoe, never dropped. No bumps in the road. Every hurdle taken in beautiful stride.

Visits with birth mom continued consistently for about eight months. Then a period of silence; mom was unavailable, case workers could not find her, messages were unanswered, visits came to a halt. Older birth siblings offered support - maybe one of them would be a placement resource if mom did not resurface. A few quick starts and then dead ends. None of the adult siblings were approved resources.

A few months later, birth mom contacted the agency and scheduled visits. Sometimes she confirmed, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she confirmed - so we would drive to the agency - and then didn't show up. It was hard to watch my (yet-to-be) son deal with the inconsistency and uncertainty of his family's situation.

Due to his age and the fact that he was not a "troubled" child, the city agency took it's time in changing his placement goal from reunification to adoption or PLC (permanent legal custody) - which is almost like adoption but does not require termination of the rights of the birth parents and is given as an option in the case of older children. So it was that after twenty-eight months in foster care, a judge decided that it was time to move toward permanency.

The case worker presented MD with a choice: he could either remain in our home permanently, or he could request that a search be made for an alternative placement - another family. I was there when that discussion took place, I listened quietly - on the outside; on the inside my heart was crying out to him, "Please choose us." - as the question was asked. His answer was something like, "Why would I want to move now?" I spoke then and affirmed his answer and also vehemently let him and the case worker know that we did not want him to move. I remember saying that I had always considered him my son; and that even if he had chosen to move away, I would still think of him as my son.

On October 19, 2016 - three years, seven months, three weeks, and one day from our first meeting - we were given Permanent Legal Custody of our son. He seemed surprised to see my tears during the court hearing.

The final step for us was to have MD dedicated. Some churches baptize or christen; we dedicate - give our children back to God. We've dedicated each of our kids when they've become legally ours - some as infants, some as toddlers, some as young children. MD tipped the scale age and height-wise. At fifteen years old and almost six feet tall, this was going to be something special.

In explaining the idea of dedication to a friend, MD overheard me use the phrase "give back." He chimed right in and said, "You're going to give me back??" He was kind of kidding and so I was able to answer lightly but seriously, "I will never give you back. You are mine forever." He and my friend understood the symbolism of dedication, and also the importance that Stan and I feel as we are called to raise our children with the support of our God and our church family.

I realize that I have really given MD back, though. God gave him to us. Just as God gave us our children by birth, God has blessed us with children through adoption. And just as God blesses us with material possessions and we are called to be good stewards of all we are given, we are tasked with being good stewards of our children; of our relationships with them, of what and how we teach them, of how we encourage them to live right lives, and nurture them in their strengths and support them in their weaknesses. That is a tall order and it is rather freeing to know that God is doing all that work through us.

On December 11, 2016 we gave MD back to God. We are endlessly grateful that we have been chosen to be his parents - for now, for as long as God will let us do the job. And there were tears that day, too. I think there will always be tears for me in the giving back.

The Same Thing... But Different

A little over a year ago we met a little boy that a friend - another foster mama - was caring for. At two months old he had suffered some sort of "injury" that resulted in brain and head trauma, which required him to have a shunt placed in his skull to alleviate fluid and pressure - his head was abnormally large and misshapen. His vision was also impaired and there was concern regarding overall development.

At nine months old this baby was barely able to sit upright due to the size of his head; he began to move himself by scooting across the floor in a sitting position because he couldn't get into a crawling position. Our friend (his foster mom) was taking him to various specialists' appointments and arranging for therapies all while taking fabulous care of him.

During this time, both birth parents were granted visits with this baby even though no one was forthcoming regarding the details of his "injury" and the agency was not able to piece together exactly what had happened. Both parents were given goals to complete in order to have the baby reunified with them. There was also a possibility that the baby would not be reunified, but rather could be adopted by his foster mother.

Eventually the placing agency became very difficult to work with - visits were not scheduled, were rescheduled, or one party or another was misinformed or late to the visit. The worker became critical of, and the birth parents were at times aggressive with, our friend. It also became more apparent that the placement would not end in adoption - which meant a continued and probably a long-term working relationship with the birth parents and the placing agency; a situation which became overwhelming for our friend.

At our foster parent support group meeting in February, we celebrated this little guy's first birthday with smiles and cheers. And then we cried and prayed together as we listened to our friend explain through tears that notice had been given that the little boy would need to be moved to another foster home.

In February we were caring for ten children ages 19, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 7, and 5. Two days later we called our agency and asked if we could be considered a placement option for this little boy. We knew him - his needs, his therapy schedule, about his doctor's appointments. We knew about his case - the goal of reunification, the frustration of miscommunication with the placing agency, the inconsistency of the visitation schedule. We knew that it was a long shot.

After a month of interviews and paperwork this little boy was placed in our home.

The therapies and doctor's appointments continued; as did the miscommunication and frustration of working with the placing agency. Visits continued to be inconsistent and the placement goal of reunification seemed far-off. In fact, several months ago the child advocate asked if we would consider being a pre-adoptive resource if reunification ceased to be an option.

In October a new case worker was assigned and the court got more involved - apparently it was clear to all parties that the mishandling of the case was working against the goal of reunification. Visits - the schedule and the specifics of who, where, and when - were court ordered; something we had never heard of. At that time we were told that on December 1 the case was going to be heard by a different judge - a judge who knew nothing about the case and was going to bring an unbiased perspective about the direction of the case. We were told that the outcome of this court hearing would result in no change with visitation or with the goals for the parents, but rather would give a point for moving forward.

Yesterday following that court hearing the case worker sent a message. The message was that visits were going to increase - drastically. Instead of dad having a visit during the day, visits would be for the entire weekend - two overnights. When I questioned the worker about how we would schedule (or reschedule) the visit over Christmas weekend, the response was that dad would have his son from Friday to Monday - for Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day; for three nights.

It felt like a sucker punch.

I knew that families were usually reunified after three or so weekend visits. I knew that the goal was reunification. I knew that this little boy was only mine for a short time. I knew that dad had been doing all that was required. I knew that this family was supposed to be together.

I also knew that I had witnessed a miracle in this little boy's development - in August he tested out of all his Early Intervention therapies. I was with him when he had surgery in June to correct his vision - surgery which resulted in the ophthalmologist's amazement over how well this little boy healed and recovered. I was there for his first steps and his first word, "ball."

I had been told that NOTHING was going to change on December 1. I had hung my hat on that. Nothing happens December 1, then three months until the next court date. Then maybe reunification. We would celebrate Christmas and his second birthday together.

That was what I was thinking.

You'd think that by now - seventeen years and forty-eight children later - I'd have caught on that just when I have my head wrapped around what is going to happen, what I expect to happen, THAT is when the unexpected happens. That by now I'd remember to save back just a tiny sliver of my heart for myself so that when each child leaves, my heart doesn't break. That by now my head would override my heart and I would realize that foster parenting is temporary, it's supposed to be temporary. That we had done our "job."

I try not to be selfish. I am truly happy for this little boy and his family; that the system worked the way it was supposed to, that he will grow up with his dad and that he is young enough to not remember being in foster care.

Every time I try not to be selfish and I think, "maybe this is the last time."

But it's not the last time.

It's just different.

Messy Middles

In the middle of beginnings.
Picking up - not where things left off, but rather - where things are now.

Lots of beginnings:

New little one in March.
Life with three less in May.
Graduation and moving out in June.
Drivers license in August.
No more elementary school this year - new senior high and middle school-ers.

Little T arrived in March and just yesterday, quite abruptly we were told that he will be reunified with birth dad by Thanksgiving. Gulp. Not that we are not expecting this outcome; we are hoping for it, but also concerned for his safety.

Visits have been consistent and have progressed to being "liberally supervised" by a family member for six to eight hours. There have also been concerns - very recently raised by several involved parties - which seem to go unaddressed by the case worker who is the very person who delivered the news that Little T "should be" home in two months. This person has not attended, supervised, or otherwise been involved with any visits since March (and quite probably many months prior.) Yet this is the person planning the future of Little T.

The case worker has not been there when a case aide was verbally assaulted by birth dad; or when dad was 45 minutes late in returning Little T from a visit; or when I was told in a verbally aggressive manner that I "really need to keep a closer eye on him" (excuse me, but that shunt in his head didn't happen on MY watch), or when he was 25 minutes late to pick up his son and then lied about being there earlier.

Despite the amazing progress that Little T has made - meeting all age appropriate milestones and testing out of all Early Intervention therapies after a prognosis of possibly never walking due to his head injury - he will need to have occasional ongoing medical treatment. There will be appointments which will be need to be scheduled and attended, and phone calls to make to follow through on recommendations. The continued progress of this child will depend on the capacity of the parent to be responsible; which judging from recent activity, is questionable.

So when the case worker schedules on Tuesday to come for a home visit "sometime" on Wednesday; and then gives four hours notice of the appointment time; and then spends all of nine - that's NINE - minutes in our driveway, not checking Little T's bedroom as is expected during all case worker visits, nor even coming in the house; and most of the nine minutes is spent with her "ooh-ing" and "ahh-ing" about how well he is doing so that it's difficult to ask a complete question... Well, that just adds to the concern. As the foster parent it's beneficial to understand what was decided in court, what the visitation plan is - specifically WHEN are the visits, WHERE is the meeting point to drop off and pick up, HOW long am I expected to sit and wait for birth dad, WHO do I contact when it becomes clear that my time and efforts are not respected.

My half-way asked questions were answered with, "We'll have to let you know about next week's visit next week," and "I'm not sure why you need to know about the visitation plan," and "How the visitation progresses has been left up to me." To which I really want to say, "Then why don't YOU show up for a visit or two??"

So we are in the messy middle of the beginning of transitioning Little T back home. Knowing God has a plan for Little T's future and trusting that God is working behind the scenes gives comfort in this situation, and in all the other messy middles that we are living through.

From Cope To Hope

These past months we've been working intensely with one of our kids as we process through past trauma and develop attachment. Part of the process has been identifying and learning to use coping skills. And it's been a timely lesson to learn during this holiday season.

Christmas Eve morning: building excitement and anticipation, yet-to-be-fulfilled expectations. Nothing surprising about a bit a frenzy and chaos. Not too alarming that it led to a melt-down. A short-lived event, but one that packed a punch - crying, sobbing, pleading, begging, some stomping and pacing.

And after about ten minutes I was able to come back and apologize for my outburst.

Not until that temper tantrum did I realize the amount of stress I had created for myself, and for my husband and kids.

As the oldest of five children in a family that was comfortable but not especially wealthy in the financial sense; I was blessed (although it's taken me a LONG time to realize it as blessing) to have a mom who has a keen sense of what is important.

My memories of Christmas time as a child are so very rich. As a pastor's wife and director of kid's ministries my mom included everyone in her, our, traditions. Every year she made - and let us "help" make - hand-made Christmas tree ornaments, hundreds of them. One year she sewed a personalized Christmas stocking for each child at church.

Within our home there were cookies to bake, Christmas records continuously playing with my mom teaching us not just the words to the carols, but the meaning behind the words. "What Child Is This" will always be my favorite because it's her favorite because of what it means to her. We kids would make up original choreography to the music and then call my mom to come and watch our latest "dance routine."

The advent calendars changed through the years - sometimes there were little flaps to open with pictures and verses of the Nativity story, in later years she made her own that included a little wrapped gift - candy, gum, chap stick - pinned on each day. Many years she gave us the puzzle of finding as many words as we could out of "Merry Christmas" with a prize for the winner. Of course, the younger ones were allowed to use two or three-letter words... My mom is always so fair and just.

And the gifts. Everything.was.wrapped.everything. Each pair of socks or underwear was wrapped separately - imagine the size of the pile under and around the tree. And she knew exactly who had what yet to open. It took hours. We used to time how long it took - four hours was the average. One at a time, slowly so we could save the paper.

The paper. How fun it was to hand your sister a gift and say, "Hey, that's the paper that my pink sweater was wrapped in last year!"

Then there were the years that no names appeared on the gift tags, only shapes. This was her way of keeping us from snooping and shaking and figuring out what a certain package might contain. Only she knew the code and she only confirmed it once we had correctly cracked it.

The stocking stuffers were all wrapped. And for most of my childhood years we had TWO stockings. One on the banister and one at the foot of our beds. That was ten stockings to fill and wrap. My mom is my inspiration to continue to wrap my kids' stocking stuffers which, when after a recent Facebook poll that I informally conducted, I came to realize that most people do not wrap.

Christmas Eve included a menu of special treats that we usually only had for that occasion. That was also when we each received a new Christmas tree ornament - and each ornament was hand-picked for each person. Cardinals for my dad - his favorite bird. Band instruments, sports items, books, teddy bears depending on the person and interest.

As we've grown up and started our own families, Christmas Eve has been when we've all gathered together to receive our Christmas ornaments - opening them one at a time. We exchange family gifts and Grammy and Pappy give out their gifts. And we have all those special Christmas Eve treats.

This was the first year that Christmas Eve was going to be different. My mom has cancer and is undergoing some serious treatment. She has little energy and has to be careful to stay healthy. So a big family gathering with lots of germs was not in her best interest.

Not until we were about to open our Jesus Stocking on Christmas Eve morning did I feel the difference. And even then I didn't know that it had registered with me. As I gathered my kids in the living room and some of them began to be less enthusiastic than I had hoped, it unexpectedly hit - an overwhelming wave of emotion. In tears I ran to the garage and sobbed and stomped and paced. And prayed. "What am I doing wrong, God? Why don't they get it? Why don't they appreciate all that I am trying to do?"

What I had been trying to do was to give my kids the same kinds of traditions and memories that my mom had given to me. In my estimation I have the BEST mom ever. One of my greatest aspirations is to be at least half the mom to my kids that she was and continues to be for me.

After calming down enough to listen, what I heard God say back to me in the garage was, "You are blaming your kids for not living up to the expectations YOU have made. You are making this about YOU, not about them." 

So that's what I went back and told my kids. I apologized for the pressure I had put on them to "enjoy" the Christmas season the same way I do, for not realizing that I was actually creating stress and not the joy I so much wanted them to experience. And my precious kids all graciously forgave me. As we opened the Jesus Stocking, I realized that they had been "getting it" all along.

And so there are times lately when I feel like the best I can do is to cope. And I hear God gently reminding me that it's okay to cope, but that the whole reason for Christmas is HOPE.

I Hate My Life

Really, honestly, sometimes I do hate my life. I wonder how in the world I got here and what I'm supposed to be doing.

A close friend recently remarked to me that I seem weighed down and that she has been prompted to pray for joy in my life. I am so grateful for this perceptive friend, and yes, I feel constantly burdened; many people do, and anyone with an ounce of compassion and living in today's world has to be.

But yes, weighed down in my own home, by the needs and situations of my very own children. We have ten children, right now; all precious kids who need nurture and love and structure and every second of attention I can afford. And while I find joy in being a mom - to as many kids as God sees fit - I also find exhaustion, and frustration, and helplessness.

Whether having to discuss (again) with a teenager why it really IS important that you do every single homework assignment even if you can pass the class with a B if you don't, or dealing with the drama of which friend told what boy my daughter likes (this week), or figuring out how to pick up and/or drop off three kids at three places at the same time, or listening to a second grader (who reads at a first grade level) struggle through reading three pages in a social studies textbook that is written at a fourth grade level, or trying to find sixty-five hours of driving time for our sixteen year old son, or arguing with my wanna-be teenage daughter over not wearing "that" to school... yes, I am tired and moody and joyless.

Each morning before stumbling out of bed I somewhat incoherently mumble a prayer to God asking him to equip me for the day. It's a short prayer and  I repeat it many times throughout the day. And I am getting better at actually thanking him when I recognize his hand in my day.

Still, even knowing that God hears my mumbled prayer, and seeing him work and orchestrate in my life, still there are days when I just hate it. I hate that I can't heal the hurt and damage that's been done to my son. I hate that he has to relive the trauma in order to process it and move on. I hate that he dislikes me when I hold him accountable and ask hard questions and have expectations and consequences.

I hate that there are some of my kids that aren't receptive to a hug; who are uncomfortable with affection. I want to go back make what happened disappear, to wipe the slate clean.

I hate that harmful chemicals and drugs were introduced into the bodies of my kids. Chemicals that forever will change the way they process and interact with the world and society.

I hate the feeling of isolation. I hate having to explain our family, and why we do things the way we do. And I hate that if I don't explain, then we are judged on what people see, not on what they know.

And I hate that I even concern myself with these things. This is the life that I am BLESSED to live. God has given me a high calling and I should concern myself only with bringing glory to him.

And so today I was reminded of this verse:  John 12:25 "Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life."

Amen.

A Diversion

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."

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.