They stick with me... those words, time frames, an indication of an event so overwhelming in one's life that even forty plus years later it's recalled with such stunning clarity. I bet this individual could perhaps even narrow it to the hours if you asked. I won't. I know as much of the story as I'm allowed and I'm grateful for having had the opportunity to listen and ask a few demure questions. It's not my story to tell.
The notion however, of the experience that so forever changes your life you can recall it in amazing clarity down to the day, the hour, the very minute you long for it to be over, is mine... and I'll discuss it however damn much I like.
Everything in our live is measured in 3 month or 6 month increments. Time between court hearings, meetings, reports and review. We're up to 16 and 1/2 months now. I counted yesterday, in a brief moment of frustration, and the irony of it hit me full force. Our 17 months and 14 days will be on July 4th. Independence day. It's not lost on me that while we as a country are celebrating the birth and resilience of a nation, my family will be continuing to try our level best to hold together the life of a little person with meds, therapy, kisses, band aids and maybe even a little duct tape. It's a Mcguyver'd life, that's for sure. Some days it feels good and other days, like today where I send her off to a visit she doesn't want and cannot emotionally handle that I feel like it's sand slipping quickly and coolly through my fingers and I cannot stop it. For the "system" that was designed to protect her has gotten to big for it's own britches and will no longer follow their own laws and rules and now makes them up as they go. And we'll file that under the guise that "each case is unique." No.. it's not. They are not different. Progress, substantive clinical progress should be recognized, celebrated and encouraged. It should be given time, support, the energy and effort of a thousand people coming together and keeping a family together. Lack of progress, out right defiance of the rules, disrespect and failures over and over to get with the program should be dealt with swiftly and sharply. And they are not. And it's disgusting and offensive.
Will it be over at her 17 months and 14 days? It won't. I know that. It hurts my heart and stings my soul to no end. Will it be over at 18 months? 19? 20? It won't. I know that too. It will likely be at least another 6-8 months from now until we can offer her a modicum of peace, stability and tranquility. More than two years since she began to speak and first called me Mommy and forever captured my heart. And then I fear we'll spend a life time trying to recover from the hell the "system" has put her through.
5.29.2012
5.28.2012
The Power
A few weeks ago, in a moment of mostly self-created despair, a wise man whom I've come to cherish as a part of my life sent me these words:
Childlike innocence, care free laughter, sleep without interruption, a ray of sunshine, breathless in an intimate moment, the pureness of a rainbow, joy unhindered by the negative --- all things I admire so. Sad to think that life's darkness dulls such beauty. If I had the power...
First of all it was by far the single loveliest collection of words ever to appear in my boring old work email inbox. Secondly it left me momentarily speechless, which is not an easy thing to do. It sums up those things I hold dear to my heart and I love them so because when properly appreciated they hold the power to nourish one's soul.
I find myself coming back to that email, almost daily, these days. It takes the ugly out of the world, even if for a brief moment in time. It allows me that moment where I can escape the reality of another three months of hell for my youngest and makes the idea of an endless summer vacation for the oldest seem not quite so much like parental torture.
Thank you for that, my love, thank you for that.
I find myself coming back to that email, almost daily, these days. It takes the ugly out of the world, even if for a brief moment in time. It allows me that moment where I can escape the reality of another three months of hell for my youngest and makes the idea of an endless summer vacation for the oldest seem not quite so much like parental torture.
Thank you for that, my love, thank you for that.
5.10.2012
Sticks and Stones... not.
In the middle of dinner. A pew in the play land of the church that is the golden arches. The obligatory chicken nuggets with ranch, french fries, apple slices, and chocolate milk. A plaintiff plea from a Dad who's already had a bad day, "Honey, please just one more nugget and then you can go play."
The bombshell, deftly deployed.
"You're not my Dad. T says R is really my dad and you're just the foster father. I saw him. He has a mustache and a beard." Her tone is dismissive.
The effect is disastrous to the soul of the only real dad she's ever had. A little bit of him died that day; right there between the bright primary color tables, the video games and the jungle gym.
How do I know? How is it possible I can sympathize, empathize and relate to this scene? It's been me, my scene, a thousand times in as many possible variations the last 17 months of raising this child. The very first "YOU'RE NOT MY MOMMY!" complete with foot stomping, arms folded in complete isolation, and defiant stare, takes your breath away. It robs you of the ability for coherent thought for a moment. It kills quickly some portion of your soul that still believes in innocence and wonder. You can't ever get it back. It takes time, patience, love and alcohol - let's be serious here - raising someone else's screwed up child isn't for the faint of heart - to get to a place of understanding that a child in care can call you Mommy for weeks and then suddenly have a visit with their birth mother, come home scared, lonely, confused and upset and your parental stock plummets to zero with the snap of her little chubby fingers. I've been Not the Momma so many times, I'd like to think I've become immune to it's charms. Truth be told, I'm not. It hurts each and every time. But I love her and I can understand that she comes from a lifetime of manipulation, lies, secrets and chaos that I, as a child, was blessedly unfamiliar with. I'm the Mommy who creates responsible meals for her, finds age and size appropriate clothing for her, makes her do chores and help out around the house, comforts her hurts and allows her to cry on my shoulder when she needs to. I'm the one she turns to daily to have her shoes tied, to help her brush her teeth, to tell her secrets to. But life with me isn't Disneyland. I don't come home every night from work bearing candy, toys and presents. I just am consistently there, in the background, making sure her little life goes forth successfully and hopefully uneventfully.
I hope one day that her first Momma will come to her senses and voluntarily sign her rights away so that we may adopt her and become her forever Mom and Dad. Do I think there is a realistic chance that will happen? Not it hell froze over tomorrow and satan began handing out margaritas. I have a modicum of faith in the system and hope that time will finally be on our side and the powers that be will see the best interests of this child. I have to have that faith, or I couldn't get through this and still remain sane. Truly.
But for the Dad, things are different. There's never been another dad in the picture. The shock, grief and rage he feels doesn't allow him to see beyond the words and into the scared little soul of a girl who never knew she had a "real" father, who is wildly confused, sad, upset, mad, running a gamut of emotions she hasn't words for at such a tender age.
He is stuck in utter devastation for the moment. I get that. And it's my job as his wife and mother of his children to help him understand that our daughter isn't intentionally trying to stab him in the heart. She's trying to make sense of a situation for which there is no logic and very little reason and unfortunately she isn't mature enough to choose her words carefully nor has she learned that words do indeed have the power to wound.
The bombshell, deftly deployed.
"You're not my Dad. T says R is really my dad and you're just the foster father. I saw him. He has a mustache and a beard." Her tone is dismissive.
The effect is disastrous to the soul of the only real dad she's ever had. A little bit of him died that day; right there between the bright primary color tables, the video games and the jungle gym.
How do I know? How is it possible I can sympathize, empathize and relate to this scene? It's been me, my scene, a thousand times in as many possible variations the last 17 months of raising this child. The very first "YOU'RE NOT MY MOMMY!" complete with foot stomping, arms folded in complete isolation, and defiant stare, takes your breath away. It robs you of the ability for coherent thought for a moment. It kills quickly some portion of your soul that still believes in innocence and wonder. You can't ever get it back. It takes time, patience, love and alcohol - let's be serious here - raising someone else's screwed up child isn't for the faint of heart - to get to a place of understanding that a child in care can call you Mommy for weeks and then suddenly have a visit with their birth mother, come home scared, lonely, confused and upset and your parental stock plummets to zero with the snap of her little chubby fingers. I've been Not the Momma so many times, I'd like to think I've become immune to it's charms. Truth be told, I'm not. It hurts each and every time. But I love her and I can understand that she comes from a lifetime of manipulation, lies, secrets and chaos that I, as a child, was blessedly unfamiliar with. I'm the Mommy who creates responsible meals for her, finds age and size appropriate clothing for her, makes her do chores and help out around the house, comforts her hurts and allows her to cry on my shoulder when she needs to. I'm the one she turns to daily to have her shoes tied, to help her brush her teeth, to tell her secrets to. But life with me isn't Disneyland. I don't come home every night from work bearing candy, toys and presents. I just am consistently there, in the background, making sure her little life goes forth successfully and hopefully uneventfully.
I hope one day that her first Momma will come to her senses and voluntarily sign her rights away so that we may adopt her and become her forever Mom and Dad. Do I think there is a realistic chance that will happen? Not it hell froze over tomorrow and satan began handing out margaritas. I have a modicum of faith in the system and hope that time will finally be on our side and the powers that be will see the best interests of this child. I have to have that faith, or I couldn't get through this and still remain sane. Truly.
But for the Dad, things are different. There's never been another dad in the picture. The shock, grief and rage he feels doesn't allow him to see beyond the words and into the scared little soul of a girl who never knew she had a "real" father, who is wildly confused, sad, upset, mad, running a gamut of emotions she hasn't words for at such a tender age.
He is stuck in utter devastation for the moment. I get that. And it's my job as his wife and mother of his children to help him understand that our daughter isn't intentionally trying to stab him in the heart. She's trying to make sense of a situation for which there is no logic and very little reason and unfortunately she isn't mature enough to choose her words carefully nor has she learned that words do indeed have the power to wound.
Enough Already
I said to myself about two weeks before my birthday that I really wanted to write more positively and more often about the gifts in my life. I was going to do that cheesy countdown daily until my next birthday. I. Am. Not. I discovered this week - affectionately named the week from utter hell for a reason - that I do not have time each and every day to write. Some days it cuts into my sleeping, and dear god, I need every minute I can get. Also... some days I'm just not so fucking positive and how can I claim to be on this path of experiences and self discovery if all I ever write is the positive. Between an argument with the husband that got wildly out of control, a diminutive shop lifter I have to address today, another daughter who is so lost and confused about who she is and where she fits into the world she lashes out at anyone and everyone, a leg cramp so painful in the middle of the night I awoke screaming, case workers and meetings, doctor's appointments and car issues still waiting to be resolved in this blessed heat, I haven't a clue how to be positive today. I do however, know how to feel. I know how to immerse myself in an experience and feel empathy and sympathy for others and that I can write about. I think I will learn from that and grow as a person and a mother. Isn't that what it's all about?
5.06.2012
364 - MIL
When life takes that unexpected detour and you find yourself rushing home from work to spending the evening at urgent care, it is good to have family. Especially a mother in law who loves my daughters as much as I do, and who doesn't hate the Golden Arches like I do and who will drop everything to make sure I can have a few minutes peace while we navigate yet another illness and/or injury to make sure my love stays on track and gets better quickly.
5.05.2012
365 - A Single Candle
Amid the crinkle of a take out box and the giggles of my daughter, there was but a single candle on the slice of birthday cake in the box. Just one. It was all I needed to celebrate my firm entry into my forth decade. It was a giant slice of a tuxedo truffle cake. Next to it sat another giant slice of tiger layer cake. Oh, I do love them both. Getting to share bites their velvety chocolate and cream goodness with two of the three loves of my life was lovely. It saddens me that my youngest daughter was already in bed, but the antics of small people have to be handled regardless of celebrations. I just remind myself that this too shall pass.
I blew out the candle and I wished for the same thing that I wish for every year, real candle or imaginary. I've done so for a decade or better now. Perhaps it's time to articulate it and give it voice in the universe. I so want my love to feel better, to do better, to be in a mentally better place. I think this time someone might have listened. I don't know if it's a combination of new meds from the new specialist or the hormone levels coming back to some level of stasis. I do know there is laughter, giggling, jokes and banter, a confident little swagger than I've not seen lately and there is accomplishment. It is good. I am thrilled.
I blew out the candle and I wished for the same thing that I wish for every year, real candle or imaginary. I've done so for a decade or better now. Perhaps it's time to articulate it and give it voice in the universe. I so want my love to feel better, to do better, to be in a mentally better place. I think this time someone might have listened. I don't know if it's a combination of new meds from the new specialist or the hormone levels coming back to some level of stasis. I do know there is laughter, giggling, jokes and banter, a confident little swagger than I've not seen lately and there is accomplishment. It is good. I am thrilled.
5.04.2012
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