Tag Archives: fostering

Time Does Not Heal All Wounds

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Raine age 3

Raine age 3

This month marks 4 years since Raine came into my care. It’s something she’s been looking forward to for a very long time. The child, with a depth forced upon her by tragic circumstances, found significance in being with me longer than her birth mother.

But as the specific date draws near, emotions have derailed any positive feelings Raine might have expected. This past Saturday, I witnessed the life we used to live. When Raine’s eyes opened, she started screaming at everyone and about everything imaginable. This went on for nearly an hour in the morning then started again in the afternoon. Come evening she decided her room was unsuitable for sleeping in and that she would “absolutely never be sleeping anywhere near anyone named Athena ever again.”

I wanted to be calm. I wanted to be something other than what I was inside which was just plain fed up. It’s been a long time since life looked like this. How did I make it through that year and a half? “It nearly broke you,” a friend recently informed me. “I don’t think you have any idea how stressed you were.” In truth, I did. But I didn’t realize how evident it was to everyone else. I scraped by – pushing myself to love and embrace my daughter even when I didn’t want to. Occasionally, I shouted back in response to her irrational ranting. Later saying, “I wasn’t shouting just speaking really loud so you could hear me over all the noise you were making.” Raising my voice is something I was incapable of until I became Raine’s mother.

In the midst of the turmoil following the adoption, there was nothing I could do but ride out the storm – keeping my eye on who Raine really was. Under all the anger she heaped on me was a little girl who’d just lost her family forever. It didn’t matter to her that she now had a new one.

Since her room was unsuitable, I somewhat calmly told Raine to get her pillow and blanket. When she did, I marched her down to the basement. With visiting foster children, there were no other rooms available. Despite her pleas for help because “the basement is really creepy” don’t feel the need to pity her. We live in a newer home. The space is mostly finished and nicely put together. Raine was settled on a lovely futon in the warmest area of our home. She was hardly being mistreated, though an hour of screaming would give you an all together different impression.

My latest goal is to stop rewarding bad behaviour with increased attention. But after I got the other kids to bed, I did go down to see her because the screaming was getting on my last nerve.

“I wish someone else had adopted me,” Raine said when she’d calmed down a bit. This was something new. Nearly always in these moments of rage, she wishes to be back with her birth mother. I can understand that. It makes sense and I can stand being compared to an actual person. However, an imaginary perfect family that is happy to hang out with Raine while she screams at them and barks demands is someone I will loose to every time.

A lengthy discussion ensued. Early on, Raine admitted, “Whenever I act like this it’s because I’m thinking about my birth mom.” I acknowledged the pain and fear she’s carrying then assured her there is a way to be free. It will take time. But time alone won’t heal her heart. We’ve walked together for four years. Raine is not the brazen, defiant 3yr old who walked into my house. Most of the time, she’s quick to obey. She’s learned to love and think of others. She’s learned to share – even the tastiest of treats. When she first arrived, if anyone came near her while she was eating Raine would snap. Driven by the memory of lack, she was like a dog with a bone. My friend and I rejoiced the first time the little girl walked home from Tim Horton’s with her timbits. Normally, she’d devour them before they were even paid for. It’s been a gradual transformation caused by Raine’s choice to trust, a great deal of prayer, and my flawed determination. Time alone hasn’t brought her to this point. Time alone will not move Raine to complete healing.

In our conversation, Raine began describing her apprehension. This was the first time she’d ever spoken of it. Never sharing the details I knew, I assumed Raine had forgotten or blocked the memory. Dr. Phil’s warning not to ask children to deal with adult situations ran through my mind as Raine asked me to fill in the details of the vague framework she described. I suppose it’s too late. When apprehended just before age 3, Raine had already experienced more than most adults. She’s overheard social workers discussing details of her life that have left her confused and angry.

WP_000156For instance, she heard her birth family was living somewhere in a hotel. The terms around that word told me it wasn’t a good situation but all Raine heard was hotel. For quite some time she was furious to be stuck with my rules and limitations while she imagined her her family enjoying a Jacuzzi tub, swimming pool, hot tub, sauna, and all you can eat breakfast. She’s been to hotels in Niagara Falls. My friend and I regularly go with all our kids. It’s fun and the rules are lax. Raine really resented being in our dull home while her birth family was living it up in a hotel. Finally I had to paint a clearer picture of where they were.

Saturday evening, I answered the questions and painted some more pictures all the while wondering if it’s right. Honesty feels right. But Raine is 7. I tried, as always, to give her the truth while honouring the parents who brought her into the world. “Your birth mother’s heart is hurt. That stopped her from taking care of you.”

“Why doesn’t she just go to church?” Raine wanted to know. “Does she even know about Jesus? He can help her.”

“She knows about Him. And He’s trying really hard to help her,” I answered. “People have to choose to work with Jesus to heal their hearts. You’re choosing to work with Him. That’s why your heart is so much better than it used to be.”

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Strengths in Weakness

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5yr old Athena is spectacularly good at peeling wallpaper. I know this because she’s done it many times in a variety of spots. Occasionally it’s done out of anger. Most times I can’t figure out why she’s picked and plucked at my beautiful walls. I was quick to blame myself – I must be missing something she’s trying to communicate.

Then one evening, I was painting the upstairs hallway. Athena had been home from school that day, as she often is. I’d made a point of spending lots of time with her. At bed, I read her books and stayed to talk for ages. Raine, having a separate room, had gotten her own alone time with me as I tucked her in. I closed the doors feeling as though I’d done everything possible to nurture my daughters that day. Opening the can of paint, I realized I’d forgotten the paintbrush. To the basement I went. When I returned, paint was smeared all over the floor.

I entered Athena’s room and told her about the situation, asking her to go wash her hands properly so she wouldn’t get paint all over the bedding.

“I don’t have paint on my hands,” she sweetly informed me.

Earlier in her life, that little voice got me every time. For a while Raine ended up in time out for the messes Athena made because both swore it wasn’t them. And Athena’s gentle demeanor seemed much more believable. Then I caught her in the act of clogging the bathroom sink with chunks of hand soap.

There are times when Athena will march into the bathroom and slice the walls with a stick her sister forgot on the ground because she’s just been sent to her room for some infraction. Then there are times when she peels all the paint of a door jam while she’s supposed to be watching a movie with friends. After saying it wasn’t her, Athena shrugs and says she doesn’t know why she does it.

I don’t know why. As a person who like to know, this really irritates me. Since there’s not much rhyme or reason, I’m trying to be more diligent in keeping tabs on her. And I’m choosing not to blame myself because even on my best day as a mom I ended up with paint all over the floor.

But today, Athena got to make the most of her experience in peeling wallpaper. She helped me strip 007away the coverings in the dinning area to make room for the new paper she helped pick out.

She was absolutely delighted – ripping of the top layer, spraying, and pulling off the 2nd layer.

Another 5yr old, who is visiting while his foster family are on vacation, loves cleaning. When I announced we needed to get the torn wallpaper off the floor because a friend was coming for lunch, he set to work. There were a few questions about my friend and her two boys. It was clear his anxiety was mounting. Turns out sweeping warded off a breakdown. He focused on getting the wallpaper tidied and swept all the floors – only stopping when I promised he could do it again after our guests left.

It would be lovely to have a solution to Athena’s destruction and our visitor’s anxiety driven cleanliness. Without that, I’m enjoying my daughter’s skill at tearing down wallpaper at this welcomed time and the other little one’s delight in cleaning it all up.

Proclaiming Liberty

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This year, my church is declaring a Jubilee. The announcement came while I held my friend’s foster baby. The words spoken by Jesus,

 “The Spirit of the Lord is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed;
To proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.”

Luke 4:18-19 (NKJV)

took on a new meaning for me. Suddenly I saw the captivity this baby had been born in to. The child welfare system is, unfortunately, necessary. I won’t dispute that reality. It’s a sad truth. There are situations children need to be protected from. Before he drew breath, this little one was caught up in the system.

As necessary as it is, the system is just that – a system. It’s not an ideal situation for children. Social workers, for the most part, do their best to make the right decisions. Foster parents, hopefully, pour love and nurture into these precious lives. But the system is cumbersome and often difficult to navigate. Decisions and directions don’t always appear to be in the children or family’s best interest.

2yr old Athena - November 2011

2yr old Athena – November 2011

When Athena came to me, she had been diagnosed with an unusual genetic mutation. The specialist insisted upon reconstructive surgery. But the system decided against it. Athena’s head was noticeably misshapen. Her one eye was recessed and it was unclear if she would be able to see properly as time went on. The decision didn’t appear to be in her best interest. As the foster parent, there was nothing I could do but pray and love her. In the end God has reshaped her head. Her eyes are aligned, though one remains slightly smaller. Had I been her legal mother, I would have decided on surgery when the world renowned geneticist insisted it was the best course of action. But Athena was subject to the decision of a system. Among other things, that system was bound by the challenge of legal custody. At that point, they were still trying to connect with the birth family – who were living in another country. The system didn’t have the authority to take medical action in a situation that was hardly routine. I am eternally grateful for Athena’s healing.

It was a miracle. Followed by an even greater miracle – that she was released from the system. Now that Athena’s adopted she has a parent – me – who has legal authority to make decisions for her life. And those choices are based on love and a desire to do what’s best for Athena. The system is unable to operate under that mandate. There are rules, regulations, and budget realities that make it impossible.

Athena & mommy - October 2014

Athena & mommy – October 2014

It’s a necessary system. But it’s a system. This year, as my church focuses on Jubilee, I’m praying for the release of captives. Foster children are captive to a system. Even operating at it’s absolute best, a system is no substitute for healthy, loving parents. So I’m praying this year, children will be released from the system into healthy, life-giving families. First and foremost, I’m praying for birth parents to come to a place of health. If at all possible, this is where kids should be. Should that not be possible, I’m praying for adoptions to occur at an exponential pace.

It was 9mths from the time my daughters became available for adoption until they were officially “placed” with me for adoption. (In our case, since the girls were already living with me, the placement was just a visit from the adoption worker that involved paperwork making the adoption official.)

9mths in the life of a child is a very long time. There are families waiting to adopt. There are children needing to be adopted. Let’s pray that comes together miraculously fast. Let’s pray that this year, many children are released from the captivity of the system into healthy families who can care for them to a degree the system can’t. Because even operating at it’s absolute best, a system is no place for a child to grow up.

Caught Up in Drama

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I tend to get caught up in the drama dished out by the media. This, may be, my greatest strength and resizeweakness. I’m not talking about the drama of reality tv or what celebrities’ children wear while walking down the street. I’m talking about things like a report on racism in Winnipeg. The article describes a portion of the city that it is “the poorest and most violent neighbourhood in urban Canada.” Where “one in six children are apprehended by Manitoba’s Child and Family Services.”

Before moving to Kingston this past summer, my sister and brother-in-law lived in Winnipeg. Having visited several times, I feel connected to the city.

Reading about the challenges facing aboriginals, my first response was, “I’m going to move there and foster.” Many children are coming into care. I’m sure my experience would be welcomed. My heart was full. Thoughts slipped out as I read the article over dinner.

“We’re not living there,” Athena told me. “It’s too cold. And winter is forever.”

I’d almost forgotten that as I got caught up in the dramatic story of despair. This is the drama that grips me, motivates me, and moves me. But in the end, there’s often nothing I can do.

I can’t pack up and move to Winnipeg at the moment. I really want to. I’ve started looking at real estate listings. It’s affordable. But I’m in the midst of several things here in Ontario – like adopting again. Realistically, I know it’s not possible or advisable. Uprooting our life isn’t going to be best for Raine and Athena right now. So….maybe when my kids are grown I will move myself into this tragedy. Because how can I not respond to the vast need?

Winnipeg has become my retirement plan. In the meantime, I can pray. I can tell you. Maybe there’s something you can do. Maybe you can reach out to the vast number of aboriginal children coming into foster care. Maybe you can get caught up in this drama, too.

Or maybe you can build benches. At bedtime, I asked 5yr old Athena, “What can we do to make the world a better place?”

“We can build benches. Paint them rainbow colours. And put them everywhere,” she answered. “Then when people’s legs are tired, they can sit down.”

Her little legs often get tired trying to keep up with her energetic sister when we’re out for walks.

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Maybe you can build a bench. Though I would love to see everyone I know jump into the world of fostering and adopting, I realize it’s an unusual path. If it’s not for you, maybe you can be a bench – somewhere for those walking this path to rest. Because the vast need can be tiring.

If you can jump into the drama, do it! If not, build a bench.

who I am

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typewriter

As a child I was artistic. My interests moved from one expression to another. At one point I began a vast mural on my bedroom wall. Discovering, half way through, I’m not a very good painter. Still I tried things – like cross stitch and scrapbooking.

In the end I’ve pretty much landed on writing. My first great success came in grade 5. I wrote a thrilling mystery that caused my teacher to label me as an excellent writer. The tale was read at every sleepover I attended that year. My friends ate it up.

I lived in a time without computers, blogs, social media, e-publishing, or any thing like that. I wrote on paper with pens. In high school I took typing courses on electric typewriters.

As a young adult, I didn’t always have a computer though they were much more common at that point. I used them when I had them and resorted to typewriters picked up at thrift stores when I didn’t.

In my early 20’s I began calling myself a writer. The only proof I had were stacks of unfinished stories in piles around my room. There was, at that point, no easily accessible showcase for my art.

Then the real digital age hit. Blogging and social media became mainstream. And I was busy being a mom. I’m still busy being a mom.

Writer isn’t a word I use to describe myself these days. Single mom, adoptive mom, foster mom are the titles I hand out when people ask who I am or what I do. Even my book centers around that theme.

where I dream of living….

 

But every once in a while that dream of writing for real slips into the forefront of my imagination. I could have lived a different life. Sometimes I can see myself at the window of a small European apartment – not Paris, somewhere very obscure like Zvolen. I imagine writing all day while overlooking a little courtyard. Then I would eat bread and cheese, drink some wine and read what I’d written before falling asleep. Waking, I’d do it all over again.

Once upon a time, my life did look like this. For a brief period I lived alone. Working in an office Monday to Friday, my weekends and holidays were spent writing and drinking tea. I have a few stories that survived from that period.

Occasionally, I wonder what could have happened if I’d really pursued writing. Yes, I was devoted to my craft as a young adult, but I’ve mostly put it aside now.

Around this time every year either my mom or a friend offer to take the kids overnight. Last night was my annual day off, as I’ve come to think of it. Raine and Athena went to my parents’. I braved the bad weather to see an afternoon matinee on my own.

I wanted a diversion. Big Eyes, the new Tim Burton film, was the only thing that appealed to me. Instead of simply distracting me from the cares of life, the movie reminded me of the artistic lifestyle I once lived. I admired Margaret Keane’s dedication to her craft.

Since becoming a mom, I’ve not been so faithful. Leaving the movie, I went to visit a friend. The evening and following afternoon stretched before me. I considered pulling out a novel I’m nearly done writing.

my pram that sometimes houses a small baby

my pram that sometimes houses a small baby

In the end, I brought my friend’s 3mth old foster baby home with me. I held him and prayed into some situations he’s facing. We watched crime dramas on Netflix. I brought him with me to church then did dishes and laundry while he napped in a vintage pram. Just saying the word pram makes me smile. It was all very lovely.

Then my daughters returned. And everyday life resumed. Maybe I’m not a writer after all – or at least not right now. For the moment, I’m a mom (who occasionally blogs).

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