When your child is a burden...

After three years our Max has racked up enough “serious” diagnosis that we can comfortably say that he will probably need some sort of assistance well into adulthood. Maybe forever. Only time will tell exactly how independent he can be, but we have low expectations. In the three years since he was adopted, our little guy has progressed one year academically. At nearly 11 years old, he reads, speaks and writes like a six year old.

Which leads me to reexamine my personal views on what it means to be tied indefinitely to someone with special needs. I’ve been thinking about this a lot this week. How I used to view families in my situation, and I keep coming back to the same word.

Pity.

I used to pity those families. The families that have little to no hope for one of their own. For how devastated they must have been each time bad news came in. As they watched their bar of expectations sink lower and lower, until they finally stopped expecting things from their child. When they finally realized their loved one would never be much more than a burden to the rest of us.

So if you’ve ever thought that about my situation, stop. Right now. I don’t want your pity.

Here’s why.

In the past when I felt pity for another family with a special child, it was because I personally didn’t recognize that special child as holding the same value as a typical developing child. Like he was a lower class citizen because he would never be on the same playing field as the typical kids. Clearly being burdened with a lower class citizen is a reason to be pitied. Right?

Then that burden became my child. That lower class citizen became a member of my family. And my perception changed. Imagine that.

How could I possibly have held someone else’s special kids to a lower value? How am I ever going to say to myself that one of my children is worth more than another? Because one will excel and the other won’t?

What are you thinking woman? It’s never ok to evaluate another person’s worth for any reason. Ever. Sweet Jesus you’d think I’d know that by now.

Having a special kid isn’t devastating. It’s not a burden. It’s really just sort of normal. It’s different, yes. But you learn. As with anything you fall into a rhythm. A routine.

And our situation is different anyway. While it is true Max is adopted, it should also be remembered that we didn’t adopt a special needs child on purpose. We knew Max before we made our decision to include him in our family. We thought he was a normal kid.

Would our situation have changed if we’d had an accurate list of diagnosis before we signed up? Maybe. But I’m not going to dwell there. Because you don’t get to pick whether your children are healthy or not. The end.

So do I know what the plan is for Max? No. Is my plan to bend over backwards to get him the best education he can get to maybe eek out another IQ point. Not really. I’m sort of ok with the idea of having a son who stays six for the rest of his life. Because in the end it doesn’t really matter.   

If we hadn’t spoken for him he would have been cast out on the street at the age of 18 with all the others. Aside from the fact that he now has parents who'll fight for him; being an American citizen qualifies him for so much more assistance than he ever would have gotten if he’d stayed in Russia. My son is not going to die on the street alone and afraid because there was no one to help him.

So really, it doesn’t matter what the plan is. My kid has already beaten the odds.

Update on Max

A lot of you have been following Max’s story. He’s our youngest son, adopted from Russia three years ago at the age of seven.

Our first year with him was rough. Really rough. Like 2 hours of Max screaming on the floor every day rough. It’s funny to think back on my approach during this first year. How I parented him the way I parented my other children, even though I knew he was a totally different can of worms. How I wish I could go back to that mama and show her exactly what she was doing wrong. Because she was doing it all wrong.  

Our second year was better. We had a team of specialists hop on board to help us make sense out of this kid’s quirks. We were able to get some diagnosis that made a big difference in how we responded to him.

So now we’re at year three. And I feel like we’re settling in. At year three it’s not so much about standing our ground against the endless meltdowns or figuring out why we were having so much difficulty getting this kid to do anything. This year we can be more about pushing the boundaries that we’ve clearly established. Figuring out which boundaries are safe to push on and which are not. Which boundaries may never be ok to push on.

We don’t know what the future holds for this special boy. We don’t know that he will ever be able to set out on his own, fully independent from his parents and siblings. He may always need someone by his side ready to step in when his boundaries get pushed the wrong way. That’s ok.

11 years in - part B

Dear Louisa,

My funny, funny girl. You were the one who played pranks on us as an infant and at 11 years old you are still finding ways to make us laugh. You definitely have your father’s sense of humor and love to bring the funny. We love that. We need that.

Neither you nor your sister wanted to receive any gifts for your birthday this year. The only thing either of you really wanted was to have a friend spend the night without the boys around to bug you. Can’t blame you.

So, 11 is rough. I’m definitely getting the “tween” vibe from you and your sister. Caught in a place between wanting cute little stuffed animals on your dresser, but not really wanting to sit at the kids table any more. I definitely see you and your sister heading into new territory, but it isn’t necessarily the same territory as other girls your age. Which is good. I like where you’re going. Let’s stay on the path we’re on. Please.

As you are struggling towards independence I am constantly reevaluating my approach to parenting you. You are pulling away just a bit. Wanting to be more independent. Which is super. I want that too. You make good choices and I want you to have experience figuring out what you want for yourself.  

I want you to take the lead these next few years. I want you to take my hand and show me the path that God has planned for you. Maintaining common ground with you is such a high priority to me, but I don’t want to be the one who decides what our common ground is. I want you to pick the restaurant. I want you to pick the show on Netflix. I want you to think about what I might like when you make these little decisions about what we do with our free time, but ultimately pick the thing you want. Don’t let me decide what you want.

 What I want most is to be able to support you in these tiny decisions now, so that when the decisions get a little bigger you’ll let me support you with those too.

You are smart, clever and funny. You are one of my closest friends.

Love you much,

Mom

11 years old, part A

Dear Annie

When I sit down every year to write your birthday letter I always struggle to find the words to tell you how great I think you are. This year isn’t much different. But if I had to pick a word for you, I’d pick joy. You’re just a joy to have, a joy to parent, and a joy to be friends with.

This year our relationship has started the gentle shift towards independence. We are starting to give you more freedom and respecting your decisions. Because my darling, you make good choices. And they are worthy of our respect.

You’re a complete workhorse when it comes to your school. You consistently go above and beyond what is asked of you, completing extra work just for the fun of it. You are starting to like Math more these days, but almost always have a book (or three) in your hand. Just in case.

You received a sewing machine this year and took to it right away. You love figuring out how to engineer the design you have in your head. Like your mother, you have no real use for patterns, or trying to make something specific according to someone else’s direction. And I love that. Learn how to make things up as you go. Adapt. Enjoy the process. Don’t worry about having the perfect finished product. These skills will serve you well in life.

Love you,

Mom

the expectation gap...

So last week I shared a bit with you about how we were willing to face multiple layers of disaster in the name of obedience in relation to our housing situation. And the elation we felt when the situation worked itself out in our favor; even though the results weren’t exactly what we were hoping for.

But that sense of elation only lasted a short while before reality crashed back in. Not so much that I was unhappy about staying in our house, but more like feeling that God promised me one thing and delivered something else.

And here I am, staring down a gigantic chasm. A chasm spanning the gap between my God honoring expectation, and the reality of my life experience.

So what then? What happens when you go out a limb and dare to believe that God has made you a specific promise, and you pray circles around that promise, attacking it from each side, just so you make sure that you really understand all the ramifications that come with it. And it’s not all some fantastic daydream that your entitled suburban heart just wants to believe.

And it isn’t indigestion either.

What happens when you’re embarrassed when your friends ask about it, and praying about it is too hard. So you just pretend that you’re still elated. But really you’re confused, and tempted to think that God is the world’s biggest scam artist.

This isn’t the place where you throw some well worn cliché like everything happens for a reason. Because that’s just dumb. And it doesn’t fix anything.

This is the place where you make a decision.

Is my faith strong enough to get through this little quandary, or is this God thing some sort of elaborate joke.

I think God drops these circumstances on us just to see what we'll do. To see if we really mean it when we say we're in this relationship, no matter what.

 Or if we really just came to Him for a handout.

 If He sends us away empty handed the first time, will we have the faith to come back again. Will we come back a second, third or millionth time without a guarantee that we'll get what He promised us in the beginning.

And even if we never get what we originally wanted, will we still love Him anyway.

So I don’t know what is in store for our family in the future. I don’t know if we’ll decide to pursue a new house in the spring, or hold off for another year or two.

What does matter is that I’ve breached the expectation gap with my faith intact. And if I’ve done it once I can do it twice. I can continue to ask for things and know that the world isn’t ending when I don’t get them.

Staring down Tsunamis

You may or may not have been following the housing saga that our family embarked in last summer. If not, let me just summarize by saying it was three months full of wave after wave of the uncertainty of transition.

Leading up to the anticlimactic day that we decided to take our house off the market. But even after we made that decision, God had one last crushing wave to drop on us, just to see how we would respond.

Two weeks after we made that decision we received a very respectable offer. Two weeks after we decided the promise of transition was no longer worth the emotional uncertainty. Two weeks after we said ain’t nobody got time for this amount of crazy.

Two weeks after school started and fall activities caused my schedule to implode. And there was nothing on the market we wanted to look at, which meant that accepting the offer might have led our family into a season of homelessness; a season of perpetual transition without a clear finish line.

But in my heart, refusing the offer would have been an act of disobedience.

Saying yes = homelessness. Saying no = disobedience.

So here I am, staring down this wall of water that is going to crush me no matter what I do. If I stay, I get soaked. If I run, I get soaked. Either way, something bad about to happen.

So we accepted the offer. Accepted the fact that Jesus might want us to celebrate Christmas in a hotel room. Accepted the fact that our special needs child might be out of school for a month and therefore a hot mess-screaming disaster for at least two months. And even better, that our special little boy who spent 7 years of his life being homeless was about to be homeless again. If this is where our obedience leads us, so be it. SO BE IT.

We marched right up to that tsunami of potential disaster and laughed in the face of its threats. Oh yes we did.

And then the annoying buyer backed out.

I have never been so thrilled to not get what I wanted.

Survival of the most persistant

So I wrote a book, the title is Dissident. There’s so much to tell you. I don’t even know where to start. How about publishing. I had no idea what I was really getting myself into when I opened that word doc nearly two years ago.

To get a book in print, it’s best to go through an agent. At least for your first book. Querying agent after agent to see who is willing to represent it. This agent will find a publisher who will buy it and turn it into something amazing that people will buy.

And you can guess what happens when you’re an invisible first time author trying to get attention in a sea of others just like you. An endless parade of rejection letters. Or worse, just being ignored. I read somewhere that you should expect to be rejected (or ignored) 100 times before you find someone willing to take you seriously.

Not sure how true that is. But it was scare me away from the profession for a long time. Talk about a colossal waste of time.

But I also read that those who make it in the industry aren’t necessarily the ones with talent. This profession is all about survival of the most persistent.  Or in my case, relentless.

So at this date, I think I’m about a third of the way to my goal of querying 100 different agencies. After about the first ten it became a game of cut and paste. Each agent wants something just a bit different, but really it’s all the same. The same questions asked in a different order. Cut. Paste. Send. Next email.

Except for the guy who asked me what other ideas I had. Which made me laugh. Because he doesn’t realize that I have well organized outlines for about 10 more books on my computer waiting for my attention, and about 100 loose threads that are waiting in the corners of my mind for their turn to be woven into something that makes sense. And beyond that there’s a slush pile of random story elements that could be something. Someday. So we’ll just put the lid back on that can of worms and move on.

Survival of the persistent I tell you. Someone has to tell all these stories.  Make sense out of these pieces. I guess it's going to have to be me.

I’ll keep you posted.

The truth about the truth

The more fiction I write, the more I’m completely fascinated by it. And by how it’s totally not what I thought it was. So as I wrote my little book I had a handful of questions that I wanted to answer.

The first one is how do you fight a war without a weapon in your hand.

The second was what does it take to turn a nice boy into a murderer.

But there’s more.

With this book I wanted to think about Church politics. If you haven’t read the book, I have it set up so that the “favored” community represents the church as a body of believers set up over several locations. With my Academy set up as a representative physical church. A place my characters assume they’ll be safe from the murderous Underlanders.

But as most Christians are aware, standing in a church does not make you a Christian in the way that standing in a garage does not make you a car.

My characters are not safe in their church. The church has just as much internal conflict as any other organization that mankind dreamed up. Administrative runaround, discrimination and cliques, putting the needs of one’s self ahead of the needs of the group at large. No one likes to admit that these things exist within the church, but they do.

So much untapped tension in the church. I love it. So much more I can’t wait to point out in the future.

Don’t call us goody-two shoes. You have no idea. We’re just as messed up as you are.

So not so much of a question this time around as a comment on human nature.

True safety will never be found with another human or within a building.

The whole Christianity faith has so many different little nuance-y conflicts. Internal conflicts, external conflicts, some are more pronounced than others. But they're all rather beautiful in their own right, I’m not sure how many I’ll be able to address with these books. Some day. All of it. All these pretty little threads that tangle up my mind will be woven into something that makes sense to someone else.

 

 

On creating a murderer

When I first started writing I was all about trying to figure out a series of events that followed a logical progression. But after I was nearly done with the first draft of this book I realized I had no idea how to write a book. I had no idea that it wasn’t really about the sequence of events at all.

It was mostly about how my characters responded to what I did to them.

As in how they survived the worst things I could think up to do to them. Because the backbone of good fiction is pushing your character to his limit, just to see what he’ll do.

One of the questions I set out to answer in this story is what happens when you take a couple of normal people, people like me and my family, and back them into a corner. Then give them a weapon and see what they do.

When I think about my male lead, Tobias, I think of my son, Alex. What would it take for my boy to take a weapon and use it to murder someone? Would he be able to do it? How far would an enemy have to push him to get him to that point? And when he got to that point, would he really be able to do it? Would he lay down and die or fight back? If i was me, I’d probably just die.

Which is why I’m not a character in my story.

When characters revolt

So I’ve probably said it before, but I’ll say it again. Writing fiction does weird things to your head.

I’ve always had a bit of a screw loose (don’t laugh, Dad). I know. But writing fiction takes my oddness to a whole new level. So let me tell you a bit what it’s like when your characters decide that they’re real people. And don’t believe you when you try to say otherwise.

In the book I wrote, Dissident, my female character is Shiloh. I wanted her to follow in the footsteps of the other strong feminine warrior heroes. With girls like Katniss and Tris to live up to, she needed to be fierce or get out of the way.

But. One day I was twiddling around, trying to avoid responsibility and so I sat down with Pinterest to find some visuals. Ok. I decided to take her shopping. Shiloh and I. Shopping on Pinterest. Weird things to your head I tell you.

So anyway I was trying to figure out weapons and such, and she told me she didn’t want a sword. She wanted lace. LACE. I died just a bit when she said that. How am I supposed to have a warrior in a lacy top. Seriously. But she wasn’t kidding. Then she picked out a gold necklace that she wanted (which incidentally made it into the book, her picking out a gold necklace in town) because SHE WAS A GIRL and wanted to be treated LIKE A GIRL.

Who was I to argue?

So after her little “don’t give me a sword tantrum” I was left to figure out how to deal with this heroine who needed to learn how to be fierce without a weapon in her hand. I think as the story continues (still collecting ideas, but I think I’ll be able to complete the story with three books) I think you’ll be pleased to see how Shiloh figures out how to wage battle against her enemy without the sword I tried to give her. How to fight corruption and injustice on her own terms. How wars are one with words instead of with weapons.

Which is so much better than what I had originally figured out.

Strange things to your head I tell you. Characters that write their own stories.

Characters that don’t realize that they don’t really exist.

This is my world.

Death to perfectionism. Don't tell my realtor.

God has been showing me so much as we’ve been in the transition to a different house these last few months.

A big part of the moving process is making your house presentable enough for other families to come and look at it. To see how they would live their lives in your space. Which presents interesting challenges when your family obviously does not fit in the space they’re confined to. And you have a special needs child who doesn’t have the slightest clue about how the process works.

So a challenge was thrown down. The challenge to find the balance between maintaining show ready perfection and the reality that we are real people living real lives. That balance is going to be different for everyone, but when I prayed over the quandary this is the answer I got.

 Let people into your imperfect house. Not because they’re going to buy it, but because it’s ok to call perfectionism a trap. I don’t need your house to be perfect to sell it, so just trust Me on this one.

Ugh. That was a hard pill to swallow. Laughing in the face of the natural inclination towards perfectionism. Choosing to be above having a perfect house, when every fiber of my being screamed that my rational was insane and demented. Intentionally leaving those tiny Legos in the crevices of my house because God said I could. Such a rebel. I know. Don’t tell my realtor.

So from the home owner who’s probably a bit too far on the “anti show ready” end of the spectrum. Well. What can I say,

Besides screw you people who made fun of the Lego’s on my floor.

Ok, that was mean. Maybe what I want to say is I would prefer not to manipulate you into thinking that we are perfect people living perfect lives with children who never touch anything. Thank you for not noticing the stray Legos that are EVERYWHERE. We’ll take them with us when we leave, but until you put in an offer, it’s really not worth it to try to get every single one off the floor. So there. God bless.

the rest of the mower story

So last time I told you the mower story. A story about how I almost gave up on life because I couldn’t start the stupid mower.

Which wasn’t so much a story about having a tidy yard as much as it was a testament to the fact that God uses funny things to show us the Truth.

But in the days that followed that little showdown, in the moments where the tears came back each time I considered what had really happened that sunny summer morning on my driveway, I had to wonder why.

Jesus and me. We’re like this. Thick as thieves. So why on earth did He let the failure chatter get so thick that I was ready to give up over something so silly? Where were the warning lights? Caution tape? A quick “hey lady you’re being silly. Stop it.” would have gone a long way.

So a few days after that little stunt I was standing in my new “sanctuary” (aka that spot on my driveway where that stupid mower finally started up) trying to get a sense of why things had gone down the way they had and got a moment of revelation.

Satan had permission to call me a failure until I hit my breaking point so that Jesus could show me that I wasn’t. End of story.

Working mowers don’t lie. A freshly mown lawn is proof that everyone can see. A flashing beacon if you know the story behind it. Jesus was here. Satan is dumb. Don’t believe him.

the infamous mower story

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been sharing with you about how the transition to a new house has affected me and the things that I’ve learned from the process. I hope in some odd way you’ve found a way to connect to our situation. Or at least laugh about it.

So this last one is a bit personal. The kind of personal that makes me guard it fiercely because I don’t want to be that vulnerable with you. But those are the best stories. Am I right?

So here we go. Eek.

Our house has been on the market for 4 months. 4 agonizing months. Which is normal. I know. But for some reason I thought we’d be special and get an offer in the first 3-5 days. Which we did, but then they walked away. Long story.

So 4 months in to the process I’m feeling rather vulnerable and angry that this isn’t what I signed up for, because I’m the mother of a special boy and I’m ENTITLED to an easy transition. So GIVE ME WHAT I WANT. OR ELSE.

Ha ha, I know. I’ll give you a moment to get your chuckling under control.

Ok, so that’s where my little heart is, all angry and frustrated about the slowness of the transition. And I’m vulnerable with a capital V.

When Satan tries to tell me that this is my fault because I’m a failure.

This little “I’m a failure” bubble followed me around for at least a week. Subtle at first, but the more I listened to it the more I heard it. I’m a failure at moving. I’m a failure at special needs parenting. I’m a failure at… fill in the blank with your own topic, because I fail at everything.

Which sounds funny to you, because you aren’t the one who was vulnerable.

So this is the storm that’s raging in my head and I refuse to tell anyone about it and I’m just trying to breathe in and out (because I obviously am not a failure at breathing) and I go out to mow the grass.

 And can’t get the mower to start.

And the world's biggest liar whispers in my ear: See I told you that you were a failure. You can’t even mow. Just sit down and accept your failure.

Cut to the image of the girl crumpled up on the driveway this close to admitting defeat. This close to believing a life crippling lie once and for all.

When truth whispers. “Wait! Wait! One. More. Just try one more time.”

So with a face soaked in tears, and a heart full of doubt, I give the stupid thing one more yank (pulling a muscle in my shoulder, thank you very much).

And the mower starts.

These are the things that only happen in the movies. Am I right?

Let’s just sit a spell and let the glory settle. The stupid mower started. But only after I chose to listen to the Truth. Even though I thought it was a really dumb idea. And I sort of only did it so that I could call the Truth a Lie. No joke.

And I have a strained muscle in my shoulder. Not because I yanked too hard on that stupid mower, but because I had an arm wrestling match with Satan. And I won. Which is a bit predictable when you think about it. But it didn’t seem like it at the time.

So then, what can I say, besides let my perfectly mowed lawn stand as a tribute to the Truth. Every time you drive past it (this week because surely I’ll just have to mow it again before too much longer) you’ll praise your God because He started that mower when I wanted to quit.

And each time the failure chatter starts again I just go stand in my yard. In that little spot where my arm wrestling match took place.  And I look at the grass. It’s a nice spot, really, right up by the road. You should come stand there sometimes too.

Jesus is in the boxes

We’re talking about transition these days. We’re elbow deep in cardboard boxes, eager to find our way to the next house that God has for our family.

But the reality of this move is that it’s not so much about having more space as it is about having the guts to laugh at the uncertainty of it all. It’s easy to believe in God when things are going good. When people leave awesomely encouraging feedback about my cute kitchen (that’s sadly in the wrong part of town for their family).

But what happens when the chips are down. When no one is coming to see what we’re selling. When the timeline isn’t going according to plan and I probably won’t be done with the transition in order to start school in the new house.

The house that has our names written all over it, but someone else is probably going to snatch up before we can put an offer on it because no one will buy the house we’re in. And it would be stupid to try to own both, even for a tiny little while.

Then I have the worst day ever and my special boy is a complete monster and someone asks if they can have a showing in an hour and a half. And then those stupid last minute people don’t even write an offer. Probably because my house is a hot dirty mess. Just like I am. For real people.

This is where Jesus really is. Where Jesus really wanted me to go. Where I’m gritty and dirty and raw. And fed up with the senselessness of it because this house isn’t really that bad. And whose idea was this anyway.

Where I still choose to believe that this is all a part of the plan. Even though I feel like I’m either crazy or brilliant because I continue to cling to a plan that’s so insane that I’m not even sure I can pull it off. But frankly I’m just a bit too defiant to give in just yet. Because God does funny stuff like this all the time.

When God leads you well past your breaking point just so you can laugh at what a wimp you were on the other side of that barrier.  

And He shows you that all of this really has nothing to do with the house anyway.

That is where Jesus is.

And it makes me wonder why we pray for God to make things easy. When things are so much more interesting out where Jesus is. The stories are so much more fun to read out here. And way more fun to write for that matter. Because if you’re going to go through the insanity, you might as well come through it with an interesting story to tell on the other side, am I right about that?

New digs

We did a little redecorating around here. Did you notice? All the stuff that blogger would let me change has been changed.

I was sort of sick of the last design. I put it together when we were adopting. When I was trying to figure out what I really wanted to do with this blog. When we made the gentle shift from being a blog that was only read by people I knew, to a blog that was read by a broader audience. When I realized that many people were touched by our adoption story, and those people were coming to hear more about the crazy things that God was doing with our family. People who didn’t know my entire life story, and frankly didn’t care what we did with our Saturday mornings.

So I feel myself shifting again, not back towards the “look at my breakfast” blog (heaven help me) but to acknowledge that people who have read my fiction might stop here. And I’d like to welcome them.

So if you’re on facebook I put together a newly decorated fan page to talk about all my stories, and all the stuff that passes through my brain that relates to my life as a writer.  

And…

If it makes it easier to remember, I made myself easier to search for by adding a static page.

elissa-peterson.blogspot.com

There’s a tab on that page that’ll bring you here, but if there’s a way to get from here to there I haven’t figured that part out yet.

Finding God in the transition

So we’re in a bit of a transition around here. We put our house on the market last May and have been on the moving tidal wave ever since. Up down, up down, down a bit more, crash. Pick yourself up and repeat the cycle all over again. Eye roll.

There have been so many beautifully sweet lessons during this time I can’t begin to remember them all. But over the next few weeks I have a handful of moving inspired posts to share, I hope you’ll find a healthy take away from my troubles.  Or at least find the humor in this big fat cardboard box headache.

So the main reason we’re moving is that we’re a family of 6 living in 1300 square feet of cute little house. Did you catch that LITTLE part of that discription?

Jory and I have been avoiding this conversation for years, tried to make it work for years. We like small. Small is efficient. And easy to keep clean. And find things. Minimal living. That’s us. We’re happy with less. Really.

But this year homeschooling 3 students on my side of the master bedroom – an area that’s about 6 x 8. Computers, textbooks, chairs, desks, and people. Use your imagination. Eye roll.  

We did it, it worked. But it was horrible. The kind of horrible that makes you take a real look at life and say is this worth it? What is my priority here, educating the kids or making the house work for just a bit longer?

Sounds a bit silly when I say it out loud.  Why would I put my house above my children?

But the whole transition to a new house thing has really been so much more personal than simply saying “we’re moving because our house is small”. If that’s the only reason I had for the transition, then I probably would have given up a long time ago. Not sure the process is worth it just to get more space. Not for me anyway. This house isn’t that bad.

So stick with me over the next few days as we unpack all the stories and take aways from the move across town that I’m affectionately calling “it’s not because my house is too small”.

Dissident

So things have been a bit quiet around here this year. It's not you, I swear, it's me.

You've heard it before. I know.

But my little word lovin heart has been pulled in so many different directions that it's unreal.

So most of my facebook people know that I've taken this spring to finish the book that I started about 18 months ago. A book that I say I wrote for my oldest son, but really I was just playing. Watching a story unfold beneath my eye lids and putting into words what I saw, all while praying that I actually made sense.

If you're a writer you know what I'm talking about. If not. Uh... Sorry? Writing fiction does weird things to your head. No joke.

But my story is done! Done I tell you. Until I find an editor to shred it to pieces that is. Over the next few weeks I thought maybe I'd talk a bit about this crazy adventure I've been on. But for now, here's the synopsis of the story I wrote.

Tobias's world is turned upside down when Shiloh shows up on his family farm. She has come seeking shelter after her home was attacked and destroyed by a roaming mob of Underlanders, leaving her alone and afraid. 

When the mob catches up with her, they are both forced to leave Tobias's family and flee to the relative safety of the New Haven Academy in search of someone who can help them find safety with other members of the Favored tribe. 

But life at the academy is far from the safe haven they were seeking. Insane professors with bizarre teaching tactics and overly protective monitors both threaten the thin veneer of safety they thought they had found when they entered the academy.  If that wasn’t enough, Shiloh and Tobias must keep their cool in the face of bullying and deep seated discrimination.  All of these factors work together to divide both students and staff, distracting them from the work the Overseer has for them.

Tobias and his friends must learn the skills necessary to take care of themselves and recognize the almighty Overseer's guidance. They must figure out who they can trust to help them find their way before the unthinkable occurs.

Sound good? I can't wait for you to read it.

12 years old

Dear Alex

So 12 years snuck up on me. 12 years means 7^th grade. Junior high. Eek. A big adjustment that every family goes through. It doesn’t affect us the way it affects your non-homeschooled friends, but it still affects us. And by us I mean ME.

So 12. There are a few things I want to remember about you as you approach this milestone. The first thing, sort of a long story, but one that is so telling of your personality this summer. So I’ma tell it anyway

I snapped at you last week when your swimming coach had her hands full and you were completely oblivious. Which, don’t get me wrong, is totally normal for someone your age to not notice. But you notice these things. You always see it when someone else needs a hand and spring forward to save the day without any prompting from anyone.

Which is why I had to laugh at myself for getting mad at you at the pool that afternoon. Sorry bout that.

And for the record, when I pointed out the problem you did jump up and ask Coach Kelly what you could do.

The second thing I want to remember about you from this year isn’t exactly summer related. It’s school. I try really hard to emphasis the joy of learning and not the glorify the fact that you’re a bit of an overachiever. I’m a bit of a stickler about not comparing ourselves to other learners. It’s never a good idea to think that you’re better at something than someone else. Which is why I like that you’re in a class of 1.

That said.  This year with school we did something new. In August I handed you an entire years worth of curriculum and said “do it.” And that was all you needed as far as direction. You set your own pacing schedule, and organized all your own documents. You planned and organized the whole stinking thing without a bit of help from me. Which is so awesome. But the part of this story that surprised even me is how driven you were to keep yourself on track. Not only did you finish the entire years curriculum a month early, but you dug in and completed some of next year’s curriculum just for fun.

And yes, I did have to tell you to cool it more than once when you wanted to work on your lessons and I needed you elsewhere. Sorry bout that.

So to my just turned 12 year old boy. You rock. We love you. You’re fun to have around. And it thrills my heart that you seek out your dad and me for advice and companionship.

But you give the worst massages ever. EVER.

Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. Stinker.

Love,

Mom

The big D (disabled, that is)

When we adopted two years ago we thought we were taking on a (mostly) healthy seven year old, who was only a bit vertically challenged. As in, he might look like a five year old, but his behavior and cognitive function were mostly on target for his age range, if you give him a bit of extra leeway to account for his traumatic social history.

The last two years have been a humbling process as we have been handed diagnosis after diagnosis telling us what was evident right after we took custody. That our little guy wasn’t nearly as healthy or mentally stable as the Russian paperwork made him sound.

You’d think it would get easier after a spell, that you’d develop a thicker skin each time you accept a new name for a set of personality quirks; a label that helps professionals know how to approach your child. A special set of words that opens doors to extra assistance because your kid is qualified.

But it doesn’t. 

Each one comes like a swift kick in the gut. A chink in your armor. And the latest one isn’t any different.

Our paperwork is back, the board of disabilities has taken my son into their database. My son is officially disabled.

Disabled.

It is so easy to park myself on that word. To feel overwhelmed by its implications. To be not quite ready to call myself the parent of a disabled child (even though I embraced the roll a long time ago). To be emotionally blinded by a label that doesn’t change my child in the slightest bit.

And how weird it is that the only thing that this emotionally charged label really changes is how my son’s needs impact our finances. How many services that used to cost us money will now be provided free of charge because he owns a different word. A word that makes him qualified for government assistance.

Disabled. Such a bittersweet word.

I think I'll sing anyway

So, we’re moving. Or at least we’re trying to move. You know how that goes. The highs and lows of negotiating with people who may or may not be trying to do what’s honorable.   Mix that with a whole lot of helplessness  while you wait on imperfect people. It’s pretty much a powder keg of stress and emotion. Especially the first time you do it.

One of those things that makes me wonder if moving a mile up the road to a bigger house as an act of obedience is really what God wants or if I’m just plain crazy because this house really isn’t that bad.   

So here I am in my not-so-happy little powder keg using all the stuff God has taught me about keeping my head every time the inevitable disaster hits. And I’m mostly fine. Not caring about the hills and valleys, not caring about how people respond, only caring about my own obedience.

Then yesterday we got a triple whammy of losing a contract on this house, losing a sure bet on another house, and a septic guy telling me I need to spend $500 to put ugly markers all over my yard – right in a high traffic area where people are going to trip on them.

Yeah. It was a good day.

Eye roll.

So my head and my heart had a little disagreement. It sounded something like this.

Heart: wahhhhhhhh!

Head: Stop being a crybaby. You’re fine.

Heart: Did you hear me? I said WAHHH!

Head: I think it’s time to sing.

Heart: I don’t like singing. I only like crying.

Head: La la la. I can’t hear you. I’m singing. You should try it. You’ll feel better.

Ok, so the illustration was a bit on the comical side. But I hope you can hear what I’m saying. My head and my heart are not always on the same page. My head knows the truth, logic and reason. My heart only knows emotion -happy or sad.  And there are so many times that my crybaby heart ruins my day because it will just not listen to the voice of reason.

So yesterday when I was driving around, tired of listening to my crybaby heart that wouldn’t shut up I decided to sing. Out loud. Louder than my heart was crying. I totally pulled the “la, la, la, I can’t hear you” card on myself.  

And it totally worked. My heart tried to shout over the singing for a while, until it realized it wasn’t doing any good because my brain was too busy trying to remember what words were next in the song to listen.  And finally it gave up and started singing too.