Why Hope And Despair Are Better Than Kale

You remember, a while back, I told you how much I love kale? Lots. Well, this is like a hundred times better than kale. Maybe a thousand times better. Truly. I just had to share this post on "Hope And Despair" from The Livesay Haiti Weblog. Check their work out here.

HOPE AND DESPAIR

“Hope and despair are not opposites. They are cut from the very same cloth, made from the very same material, shaped from the very same circumstances. Most of all, every life finds itself forced to choose one from the other, one day at a time, one circumstance after another. The only difference between the two is that despair shapes an attitude of mind; hope creates a quality of soul. Despair colors the way we look at things, makes us suspicious of the future, makes us negative about the present. Hope, on the other hand, takes life on its own terms, knows that whatever happens God lives in it, and expects that, whatever its twists and turns, it will ultimately yield its good to those who live it well. When tragedy strikes, when trouble comes, when life disappoints us, we stand at the crossroads between hope and despair, torn and hurting. Despair cements us in the present; hope sends us dancing around dark corners trusting in a tomorrow we cannot see. Despair says that there is no place to go but here. Hope says that God is waiting for us someplace else. Begin again.”

(unknown author)

Sayin' Grace

When AK returned to us last fall for his second stay with us in foster care (AK stands for Average Kid) we started saying Grace at dinner. Pretty much it has stuck. We go around the table and each take a turn saying our own prayer/blessing/whatever you call it and it has worked. Part of the ritual is recounting who went (said Grace) last night, the night before, etc. in order to confirm whose turn it is.

So the interesting thing is in the twenty or so years we have been together, it was only two weeks ago while on vacation that The Other Mother and I, alone, have actually held hands and said "Grace" out loud. I've silently prayed with her - plenty of times, actually. She probably doesn't even know when. Holding hands, sitting, walking, laying in bed in the quiet time before sleep. But always in my head. Privately, not aloud. So when The Other Mother and I held hands and said Grace last week while the kids were at camp (and we were together on vacation) it just seemed strange.

It felt a little odd since we usually have a few kids around the table to hold hands with. Even when Baby Dee was with us, I'd hold her whole tiny little hand with just my finger tips and Bobby would stretch over to the high-chair and grab onto her sleeve to complete our family circle. Praying with just The Other Mother it seemed...I dunno. Different. Strange. But, at the same time, very, very nice.

Wordless Wednesdaaaaayyyyyy AHHHHH!!!!

One of the reasons I believe I can successfully parent a child with PTSD is that I have raised a child to adulthood, despite his best efforts, that is a carrier of the disorder as evidenced by the following Wordless Wednesday Photos.

Cilantro Chicken Roll Ups ( Instead of Trauma Anniversay Cake)

It is that time of year again folks. Disregulation, snarkiness, raging. Manic highs and lows in a matter of moments. It begins when the very first fall leaves start coming down. The morning light changes, there is a crisp earthy smell and chill in the air. Summer is ending. Fall is coming. And so is Trauma Anniversary.

In other homes the change of seasons is a cue for back to school shopping, fall sports, another school year. In my home, the change of seasons heralds an oncoming emotional upheaval much like the sound of a train in the distance. It's coming. Coming closer. Closer. Trauma Anniversary is coming. It's here.

You'd think I'd know my kid's signals by now.  Duh.   If you look at the past four summers, anyway.  Because as much as stuff spills out everywhere, the causes of this annual emotional upheaval just aren't talked about very much - especially not for the past three years of therapy. Especially not there.  A new therapist has been hired by the clinic and we've met with her for an initial appointment. The fourth year of therapy begins in September. We'll see. In the meantime we have solid psychiatric support that has remained consistent and supportive. Thank goodness for that.

So, rather than giving you another Trauma Anniversary Cake recipe - I thought I'd share my latest culinary adventure. Ummmmmmm. Easy. Quick, and oh so yummy. Good enough to maybe forget for a while I am parenting a very damaged kid. The bright twang of lime, the peppery bite of onion and zing of cilantro give me something else to pay attention to for a while.

CILANTRO CHICKEN ROLL UPS

Ingredients:
Onion, Lime, Cilantro

Package Taco Seasoning

One pound of Bonesless Chicken,

Package of soft flour tortillas

Recipe:

Saute chicken in seasoning as directed on package

Shred chicken using 2 forks

Squeeze juice of one lime over chicken

Sprinkle generously with raw finely diced onions

Sprinkle to taste with finely chopped cilantro

Spread on soft tortillas

Roll up
Inhale

Garnish:

Lime wedges

Finely diced white onion

Finely chopped cilantro

Optional
Taco sauce on the side

Sunday In My City

Sundays in my city. Sort of. Yeah, so this is really what we did on Saturday.  Close enough. Sunday was pretty much the same thing - except minus the kid who was disregulated and looking to continue his rage from the night before on his Moms.  So rather than ruin everyone's day (which was one of his goals, anyhow) we explained he did not have to go with us, and in fact he was not welcome to join us "since all we do is boring stupid stuff and never have any fun anyway *".  He quickly changed his mind crawled out from under the covers stomped upstairs, grabbed a swimsuit and stomped and sighed his way into the back seat of the van.  He was wide eyed and shocked when I said. "No. Really. You are not coming. Your staying with Alex. Really." As hard as it was. We left.  Alex, 20,  was standing in the driveway looking quite shocked as he had never seen us do that before.  Silly kid. He was an only child up until five years ago! Had he a big brother or sister back in the day when he was pulling his own tantrums, we would have left him with his sibling in a skinny minute. But as an only child we only had the option to work things through or cancel our plans. Thankfully we have choices now.  

We left him in the care of his 20 year old brother while the three remaining civil individuals enjoyed the beauty of the great outdoors, a resonable facsimile which is illustrated below.  We just went to a much bigger lake that was very windy and had white caps. James and The Other Mother worked their arm muscles fighting a headwind out to the other end of the lake and rode the white caps (yes! WAVES!) to shore.  I did the kind thing and remained behind on shore to hold down the blankets blowing in the heavy winds. Since I was already bundled in a towel and hooded sweatshirt, and I stretched out on the blankets to save them from the wind, it just seemed silly to let a good napping opportunity go to waste....

* This is what we did on Saturday that he said was boring stupid stuff : 5 mile bike ride exploring town, and the bike path in morning, tennis on the nice courts in a neighboring town, lunch back home, kayaking on the lake with the loons - a few games of kayak tag,  home to change clothes and play a little Wii, then off to dinner at our dear, dear friends where we dined around the campfire on deep fried turkey, sweet potato fries, grilled corn on the cob and roasted marshmallows.....

Yeah. Boring. And Stupid. Don't forget stupid. 

The Still, Small Quiet Voice of God

I heard the still, small, quiet voice of God the other night and it sounded remarkably like my friend Kay.  Kay is a foster adoptive bio Mom, a well respected author and public speaker and is part of the Mountain Top Moms foster adoptive/support group I attend.  Our monthly dinner meeting was breaking up the other night when someone suggested she write her next book about Foster Parent Support Groups.   She was standing by the table, getting ready to leave, and with one hand tucking her hair behind her ear, smiled and said so quietly and sweetly, "Oh, but it's not my story to tell".

I thought about what she said as I was getting ready for bed on Wednesday and thought about it a few times yesterday and woke up thinking about it today.

Maybe a week prior I had shared my blog address with Kay.  This was very hard to do. As you all know,  I keep our identity and location private so I can blog freely about my life.  During this same time I had read of a call for submissions for a publication on foster care. I began sorting through my blog archives looking for several posts that might fit into the publication's listed parameters.  Ones that weren't too awful and that I could, maybe, submit.

I have to tell you both my literary and personal insecurities came out in full battle regalia soon after.   I am, after all, from New Jersey where deeze, dem and doze and youse guys can be considered formal speech. My blog posts couldn't be submitted for publication let alone shared with someone who knew me. Who was I kidding?  Kay is a published author whose successful books cover a wide range of topics.  I look up to Kay and wanted to put my best foot forward in revealing something so personal and private to someone I knew.  What if she read a boring post? Or, worse yet, one where I was cranky and whiny and as miserable as I sometimes portray my kids to be? 

I was uncomfortable being vulnerable to scrutiny and judgement. Rightly so.

I culled a few into some general groupings: humor, foster/adoption, challenging behaviors, etc. and , and sent an email off to Kay highlighting what I felt were some posts I'd not mind her reading and ones I would select from to send off to this publisher.

I came to the blog world struggling in parenting a child with RAD in a preadoptive placement in our home.  I felt at times like I was living in the Twilight Zone, that I was very alone. Here in the blogosphere I discovered there are MANY (far too many) moms who deal with parenting traumatised kids in a crazy world similar to mine. It was a blessing.

But, somehow along the way I lost sight of why I came here and what I was seeking.   At times, my blog has morphed into a forum where I do not put my best foot forward, I do not speak lovingly and kindly and with empathy about my children and our day to day interactions. I do not always look for the message in my children's behavior, because all I write about is their messes on the bathroom floor.  Instead of turning to them with love and acceptance,  I whine, I pout I rant and rave and type with a pointed finger.  Instead of looking at their families with compassion I publicly list their shortcomings when I could just as easily list my own. 

I do like to go on and on about imagined indignities and perceived injustices I think have been committed against me and mine...and I just wanted to say that I am very sorry. 

Truly sorry. 

All because the still, small, quiet voice of God reminded me that it is not my story to tell.

So what does this mean?

It means that there are a few posts I'd like to cover up and bury in the backyard compost bin  because I have not always been kind and loving in my words.

Not very kind at all. Certainly not kind and loving like the still, small quiet voice of God I heard the other night.

It means there are other posts I'd like to republish to show others and say "See. I didn't need to say that; that was my own fears and insecurities speaking. It was me not feeling competent as a mom reacting to my child's fear of not feeling lovable ...". Instead of me ranting and raving about the daily drama. 

It means there are funny posts where I could say "look; I got that laugh at another's expense to make myself feel better for just a moment because of my own inadequacies".  I'm not very proud to admit I often go for the laugh to make myself feel better when I should be acting better. That is not moving towards good or God.

It means that some posts should just get tossed  tossed in the Too Much Information file.  It is NOT my story to tell.  I am part of the story, but it is not always my story to tell. What I write is true.  I hide identities and locations. You can't make this stuff up.  But it is not my story to tell. I need some fresh batteries for the TMI - Edit button on my Emote Control.  Yeah,  because sometimes my Emote Control just doesn't work at all.

Ultimately, it means I have discoverd somethings about myself, my writing, my desire for a more therapeutic and less judgemental relationship with my children,  and my search for a deeper relationship with God and with all things good. 

Don't worry. I will still tell the story - but will  to spare you the dirty details.  I will still tell the truth , but be more compassionate in the telling.

I will better try to sort through my day when I tell my experiences, and make it my story, because, really, that's the only story I can tell.

Becoming a Little Lop-sided

I'm becoming a little lop-sided.  Cute if you are a rabbit.  But I'm not a rabbit: I'm a wife, quilter, reader, cook, dreamer......more than just a foster-adoptive mom.  I  need to reflect that same balance,  not just in my writing, but in how I spend my time.

Take quilting for example.  I say I love it, I used to love doing it, but have not consistently carved out time to actually sit down and quilt regularly in the past year.  Under my sewing table, is a large laundry basked filled with completed quilt tops that need finishing. I have an embarassing amount of lovely fabric just waiting to be used. Mid-September is the bi-annual quilt show that I have previously entered and quilt guild membership renewal. Quilt magazines are stacked in baskets and coffee tables with sticky tabs marking projects I'd like to try.

My amazing spouse gave me a fancy new sewing machine for my birthday this year for inspiration.  It took me almost a week just to read the manual! I'm still a little intimidated by all the bells and whistles, but I am also excited about the fancy tricks this new rig is capable of.

This weekend, plans have been made for kayaking the pond with the boys and our dear friends. Sleeping late on Saturday. Spend sometime with our eldest son. Do a little house hunting. Sunday morning is Church and our family will share in the preparation, serving and clean-up of coffe hour after church services. With any luck, there will be time at the lake, a nap in the afternoon and something grilled for dinner, maybe head downtown for ice cream and a walk along the bike path by lake for sunset. Nice. 

No matter what we do this weekend, or what crazy stuff life, and my kids and their social workers throw at us, I think balance, the idea of Balance, the actuality of BALANCE, must be a priority. Lop sides are cute on a rabbit and all....

This weekend I will remind myself about to live my life with BALANCE:

Coffee hour.....I'm thinking something blueberry-ish since we picked 20 pounds two weekends ago and 6 pounds last weekend. When I don't feel like baking I need to remind myself how good those berries are going to taste.

Quilting...I have this cute fabric with trout and bass and a fishing theme that would be fun to work with. I need to make myself sit down and sew. Just pick up the pieces and sew.

Reading...Our library has an ongoing book sale in the book-nook under the stairs and yesterday I picked up 5 books in a knitting/murder mystery series that might be just the ticket....I need to remind my self to sit in the recliner and take some time to read.

My spouse. She is just amazing. After twenty years, my heart still skips a beat when I see her when she comes through the door at the end of the day. Being with her is like putting on eye-glasses: everything is crisp and clear and focused. She is my anchor.  My best friend. This weekend when we walk along the bike path or hold hands in prayer at church or fold laundry together I won't need to remind her.  She already knows.