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

A birth mother’s voice.

A few of you know that we recently made contact with the woman who gave birth to our youngest child.

We were so grateful to those of you reached out with love and support as we opened that doorway. When we gave a voice to the woman who betrayed our son.

It is a controversial topic. We know. Each adoptive family needs to decide for themselves whether that woman deserves to be heard or not. In our case she did. We looked at photos of her and her new family online, we decided that her home and her other children looked well loved and cared for. And we decided to give her a chance to right what she had done wrong. To give a voice to her sorrow.

Knowing that she still lives on the other side of the planet, and will never serve as a threat to our boy because the law is on our side. So there.

It’s so easy to have a hallmark fantasy about the other mother; to make up with a heartbreaking daydream that ended in her walking away from her only son for some heroically justifiable reason.  And it’s so easy to think of it as just that. A fantasy.

And how deep down you know it’d be much easier if she was some horrible drug dealer who couldn’t take care of herself, let alone a tiny infant. Because then you justifiably hate her for what she did.

But in our story she wasn’t a drug dealer. She was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and giving her son away was really her best option.

It was so hard to come face to face with the raw emotion behind her story. To know that she truly did love him as much as we always hoped she did. And to know that she regrets her decision every day, because she shared that reality with you herself.

To know that she went door to door asking old neighbors what became of him, and no one had any answers for her. And that she kept pictures of him as a tiny one all these years, because he is still precious to her.

And how I have the tender joy of sharing her burden, knowing her story, and the beautiful ending it had.  That I can squeeze her boy just a little extra tighter at night, so maybe he can feel the love of both of his mothers in my embrace.

She would have been a good mother to him. If the chips had fallen a little differently. But God had a different plan, one that set into motion before he was born.

And my little heart is a bit ecstatic to find a way to share the truth of God’s love with her. The love of a God who cared enough about her baby to provide for him when she couldn’t.

when words fail.

So I generally don’t talk about current events on this ol bloggity. Newsworthy events that by the time you get back to this piece will surely be old hat. Events that will likely be old hat by the time I get around to sharing this collection of words with you. Or possibly the truth that it’s nearly impossible to discuss current events without sounding like a broken record bleeding heart.

But I stumbled across a particularly interesting article on NPR the other day. If you missed it, I’ll just summarize by saying that the Central African Republic is a hot mess, and those people are clearly experiencing Hell on earth.  And the international media is mostly ignoring the problem.

Which isn’t really news. There are a lot of people on this planet who go through Hell every single minute of every day. Which is probably why the media would rather tell you about Miley Cyrus’s new outfit than another international crisis. Because they don’t want to sound like a broken record either.

For some reason this particular story came like a swift kick in the gut. Driving along listening to this tale on the radio I had a vision. One of rebel soldiers storming my house and me handing my children each a box of granola bars and pointing them to the neighbor’s woods with the instruction to flee for their lives. Knowing full well that my oldest son is months away from being old enough to be rounded up as a child soldier in the LRA, and it won’t take much time for my girls to be old enough to be considered for marriage.

But instead of fleeing for their lives my kids are permitted to bicker over which movie to pick on Netflix and shop for cute winter boots at the mall.

And when I think about social injustice in terms of my own offspring there really aren’t words. Just tears.

But as I ponder over the insanity of it all I keep coming back to this truth; if Jesus didn’t let the world fall apart, then He would have no reason to come back and rescue us from ourselves.

So with this little reminder I’ll exhale. Kiss my babies, chuckle at their “conflicts”, and thank the good Lord that we’ve dodged another bullet. Literally.

Thank you Jesus for my first world problems.

Guest post: Cook. Clean. Repeat.

Over the next few weeks we have a handful of guest posters who have stepped up to the plate to share their thoughts on finding God in the mundane moments of life. Today I'm so thrilled to share a few words from Rebecca Wenrich. Enjoy!

As a stay-at-home mom to a very VERY active toddler and three puppies, a lot of my days look the same. Here's a glimpse...

My daughter wakes up super-early and comes to my room for a little more sleep. I get her a sippy cup of milk before she realizes she doesn't have one. After she wakes up, I get her dressed and quickly try to take the dogs out before they make a mess in the house.

We all have breakfast. We read. We play. We do preschool from home. Inevitably we watch something on the Disney Channel. We have lunch. Then we have the nap time fight.

While nap time happens, I try to straighten the morning's mess and get dinner started. She wakes up. I finish making dinner. We eat. My husband comes home. Before too long, it's bedtime.

The next day, we start again.

For me, at least, it is far too easy during these repetitive days to slip into the mindset of: what am I doing here? Am I making a difference? Is my daughter going to remember any of this?

But then I get little glimpses of what's going on in her little head and heart. When we're having a tough day and she says "don't worry, Mommy. God loves your heart." Or when my husband has been working for 12 hours straight and we both miss him and she tells me, "I know you miss my daddy, but I'm here with you." Or when she says, "Mommy - I need to tell you something. You will always be my mommy and I will always be your baby. No matter what."

I thank God for these moments that pop up in the middle of a hum-drum day, when I've just put away a shelf full of books for the 15th time or I've just tripped over the Thomas riding toy AGAIN. God uses this sweet child to remind me that He has not forgotten me. He directed my path and brought me right here - right in the middle of the laundry and the toys and the dogs and the mess.

And really, I wouldn't have it any other way. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to start on the dinner while she finishes her nap. :)

Becky Wenrich is a wife, mom, dog-lover and Jesus-follower, though not necessarily in that order. She loves reading, hanging out with her family, and all things Penn State. You can follow along with her family’s second adoption journey at http://wenrichfamilyadoption.wordpress.com

 

Community building with (In)courage

Disconnected, alone, discouraged.

These are the secret burdens I carry. As a stay at home, homeschooling Mama I wrestle with not having a lot of face to face contact with the outside world. I’m busy with the kids, the house, the erranding.

I’m plain busy and so are my friends. The reality of the situation is that the only day I really have for intentional community building socializing is on Sundays.

So what then.

My choices really are live without community, or turn to the internet to fill in that gap.

Now you know why I (like so many other stay at home moms) spend way too much time on Facebook. You could call it bored unproductivity if you want. I have felt that way a time or two.

But no.

This fall I’ve decided to raise the stakes. To stop looking at internet friendships as weird and reach out to other moms who are too busy with home and work to invest in a face to face community.

With four other women (I lovingly refer to them as my internet friends. Hi girls! Love to you!) we’ve pooled our efforts under the loving guidance of (In)courage to create a facebook community known as Threadbare Mommas.

My lovely girl Sarah put it so nicely in our group description:

For those mommas who are hanging on to Jesus while their knees are showing signs of wear from scrubbing, tying shoes, kissing away tears, begging for mercy. We are here to encourage you, pray, and laugh with each other!

Our group, Threadbare Mommas, is one of a collection of groups organized by (In)courage to help disconnected Mommas like myself find likeminded friends who are looking for people willing to dig in and invest in authentic community.

Group sign ups are open starting this morning. There are a handful of women looking to invest in you, why don't you say hello. 

Sarah also has some words to say about our group. Would you like to meet her?

Seeking influence over income

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So we’re talking about transition lately, right? I shared with you the hidden truth that I’m a entering a phase of being a wanderer without a clear road map to my destination.

And every day I make a conscious choice to not freak out about not my blind stumblings.

Do you know how hard it is to not freak out when you can’t see where your feet are going?

At least 10 times a day a very silly end of the road solution pops into my head. Hey, I could go get a job and earn a pay check! Any pay check will do. Maybe I should be a greeter at Walmart. Or a professional burger flipper at Wendy’s. Those are perfectly respectable ways to invest my time and energy right?

And I can only imagine how much I amuse Jesus with my attempts to microwave the process towards finding my next phase of life. But no. He keeps whispering in my heart. We’ve already discussed the idea that you don’t need small children to feel like a productive member of society, well guess what. You don’t need a paycheck either.

Ugh.

Don’t panic. Trust me. There’s a plan.

I can be a productive member of society without a baby glued to my hip.

And I don’t need a paycheck from some mindless job to feel like I’m making a difference either. It would be nice if my next phase of life included some form of income, but really I’d rather feel like I was making a difference than just showing up to earn a check.

So no to Wendy’s. Which is probably a better choice for my waist line anyway.

Yes to a bit of more blind wandering. A bit more stumbling past options that are not even remotely what Jesus has planned.

Going through a period of blind stumbling? I’m so glad you’re here. Shall we stumble along together?

The season of nomad-icity

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I announced a few weeks ago that I’ve officially entered a transition stage of my life. The stage where my kids still sort of need me, but I’m no longer hovering over them protecting them from imminent doom 24/7.

And the day I admitted to myself that it was time for the transition was like being released from bondage. Like the story about the Isrealites in the old testament. Only without the locusts. I wanted to sing and dance and shout “freedom!” from the top of a very tall building.

But if you know the story of the Isrealites you know the transition from slavery to the promised land wasn’t so easy. More like sort of tragically horrible.

And while I haven’t been in the desert of transition for more than a month I’m already looking around for the road markers that show me the short cut to my promised land.

Some days I’m so itchy and agitated I can’t even stand my own skin. If you were to eavesdrop on my prayers they would sound mostly like this: dude, what am I supposed to do now? Can’t we just microwave this process to move it along a little faster? Cause I’m ready to move on. So just tell me where to turn my attention and I can get started. 

And I can imagine myself trudging along with those ancient wanderers. Struggling day after day to see God in the mess. Trying to pretend that I’m ok with not knowing exactly what tomorrow will hold. Or the day after that.

But unlike my ancient ancestors of nomadic fate, I have the ability to cheat. When I open my Bible to revisit their story I can skip past the hard part. The forty years of wandering. The part about shaking the grit out of their clothes and eating the same friggin meal every day for years.  I can tra-la-la my way past the hardship and go straight to the glory and celebrate with them when they finally unpack their bags in the promised land.

I see myself reaching out to whisper in their ears, “Hey, I’ve read this story a million times. In the next chapter, God’ll provide a miracle and it’ll be ok. Don’t freak out, you really are going to make it. I promise.” 

And I can only imagine Jesus whispering the same words in my ear. “Your part comes in at the bottom of this page. But don’t skim down to find yourself, you have to read the whole thing for it to make sense.”

And so with those thoughts in the front of my brain, I’ll pick up my dusty pack and trudge forward. Not skimming, but embracing. Letting God cook His plan for me just a bit longer before He shows me what it is. Knowing without a doubt that there is an end to my wandering, and chances are pretty good it’ll take less than 40 years to get there. And if not, then at least I had ice cream to keep me company while I waited.

So, on the road I am. I imagine I’ll be here for at least a bit longer. Head low to avoid the grit swirling around me. Trying my best not to grumble, but knowing God isn’t offended when I do. 

Shall we travel together?

A mom and a hmm...

The other day I was sitting on the steps in the shallow end, cooling my little tootsies in our watering hole of preference. It was a gloriously sunny (for once) day, and hot as a mother hen (for once). From my little perch I was surrounded by other shallow end Mamas. You know the crowd, the ‘my kids can’t swim independently yet, but I don’t really want to get up and play with them, so I’ll just sit here and throw the ball for them’ group. Sound familiar?

They tend to have conversations that revolve around poop, tee-ball, or Blues Clues.

Last summer I was one of them, watching as my littlest boy bravely found his nerve to venture out of the shallow end. Letting those Mamas believe he was 5 like he appeared, instead of his true age of 8. Smiling and nodding as they shared their woeful tales of raising little bitties. Still sort of able to relate, as my special boy was still having such a hard time adjusting to his new family.

This year the tables have turned a bit. My littlest still has his issues, but he’s no longer confined to the shallow end of life. Thanks to a bit of maturity that comes from taking another trip around the sun, and proper medication that helps calm his angry internal beast, he’s ready for the high dive, in more ways than one.

 And as I recognize the growth in my youngest, I recognize the growth in myself. I don’t need to be a shallow end Mama anymore. I don’t need to cling to the job security that motherhood provides. I can be a mom and a…

Hmm.

A what?

That my friends is a very good question.

As I cheer my children towards independence I recognize that God has planted a seed in my heart. A seed for something else. A willingness to compartmentalize my Mama-ness, with the understanding that there are more ways to serve God than through parenting.

I can even make the steps to compartmentalize that area of my life without knowing what will step in to fill the void. God is a big God. He can figure out what I’m doing next.

So I’m taking suggestions. Any of you know what God wants me to do next? We can rule out circus clown and professional chess player, those are just not my spiritual cup of tea.

Any of you facing a blind step? I’d love to hear your story.