Real Life Archives - Page 10 of 12 - Parents of Foster Care

The Silent Mother

06.17.2016 by Sarah //

He lays on the sidewalk, head on arms, “resting”.

At least that’s what it looks like to everyone else.

The comments from the passersbys sound like, “He’s tired.” Or, “It’s been a long day.”

The birthday part is small. Everyone is here to see her.

But, she watches bugs or plays with sticks, avoiding the gathering of friends and family.

“She just doesn’t like crowds” they say.

He kicks a ball in the front yard while you get the mail. The neighbors, out for a walk, stop over to chat.

Out of nowhere he screams, fear wild in his eyes, body tense, nerves gone haywire.

“It’s just too much for him” the neighbors uncomfortably attempt but they know they don’t really mean it. They’re not sure what went wrong. So, they reassure themselves with empty comments.

Day in and day out, others see without knowing. That’s by design. It’s on purpose.

They can’t know. They shouldn’t. But you do.

What is Really Going On

The passive sidewalk layer is avoiding a melt-down in the only way he knows how – shutting down.

The one that “just doesn’t like crowds” is actually so very overwhelmed with her own emotions concerning relationships with family and friends that she just can’t sort them all out. Where do her loyalties lie? In mom and dad? The other, more fun people? Who sets her boundaries when all the rules are different for all the people? If she likes one family more why can’t they be her family? Is she really stuck with the one she has? Why? She’s had so many. Why is this one different?

The screamer is ruled by fear. He looks happy on the outside. That’s his defense. But defenses evaporate when he’s caught off guard and his real driving force takes the lead. He screams, terrorized and out of control because that’s how he lives his life, it’s just hidden on the inside.

What do you say when you know you can’t and shouldn’t explain?

Nothing

They want an answer but you just can’t give one.

And it wears you down. It shuts you up. It weighs heavy inside. But it’s good, and true and right, because you’re protecting your child. And one of these days you’ll learn how to be gracious and to draw them in without speaking lies or unveiling your children’s stories, but until then, you sit silently. You tend to your children and pretend you didn’t hear.

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(Note: I created the images using Pic Monkey’s free photo editing website. Check them out here. This post may also contain affiliate links. For more information, read my Disclosure Policy here.)

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Why it’s NOT the SAME

06.11.2016 by Sarah //

“I’ve got a grandchild that age,” the lady behind the counter smiles at us and nods. “It’s normal”.

No! No it’s not! I think as I gather my youngster and groceries and leave the store.

Is your grandchild motivated by fear? Fear that with all the rows and rows of edibles in this Candyland of food that she won’t get one single bite? Fear that it will all be denied her? That she must have it all, eat it all, consume it all, right now in this very moment, or it might be taken from her – forever?

No.

No, it’s not the same.

At the park, he flips from the monkey bars to the slide. Spiraling downward he hits the bottom and takes off running, this energetic child of mine. He’s going so fast, tearing across the mulch.

I watch him like a hawk, concern mounting.

He doesn’t stop as he nears the grass and panic arises in me. If I don’t head him off, he won’t stop – at all.

I holler for him to come back but he doesn’t hear me. I tear off after him, nearly tackling him and firmly place my hands on his shoulders pulling him into a hug. He struggles at first but then calms. Let’s me wrap him in the deep pressure embrace.

I feel his energy turning muscles into cords, trying to get out. I whisper in his ear and we jog back together, but his eyes. Oh, his eyes dart here, there, behind us. He’s looking, constantly looking for the way out.

We reach the mulch and I slump, out of breath, onto a bench.

Another mom is there. She’s seen the whole thing.

“Just let him run off his energy,” she says. “I’ve got one just like that. He’ll be fine.”

I smile at her. Too weary to educate – to censor the words running through my head. Too focused on my son and his next possible attempt.

Fine?! I think.

Fine that his limbic system takes over and he can’t stop? Fine that, while he needs this physical outlet, he can’t control it? Fine that running has been his default, his safety, instead of a caring adult? Fine that the streets and the “away” are more comfortable- safer- than the “here” and the “me” his caregiver? No. It’s not fine.

Its gymnastics. She’s good at this. Believe me, you should see her at the park. But she stands in the door, unmoving. We’ve done this little routine for months now. She doesn’t want to go to class. I coax her in. She finally joins her teammates who are already warming up. Furtive glances come my way every 5 seconds.

Yes, I’m still here, I nod.

She goes through routine. This part is easy. The warm up is always the same.

Next come the skills, learning something new, adding to what she’s already accomplished.

And she freezes. Won’t take another step. Won’t try. Won’t. Just won’t. She looks at me, “come save me!” say her eyes.

I can’t. You need to try. Move forward, take the next step. If I take you home I haven’t saved you, I’ve lost you. Lost the real you who can rise to meet challenges, who can overcome.

The tears come. She’s crying now. Much too old for this public display. I join her on the mat and pull her to the side. I comfort her there out in the open while all the parents watch. Her teacher understands. Her teacher lets me do it and moves on to the next student.

“I know it’s hard. I know you’re scared, but I also know you can do it! You can do hard things! Remember last week? Remember what you did then? Come on, I’ll stand right here. You try it.”

It takes much longer than it should, but eventually she tries, and fails. I try too, right there in front of everyone and I fail too.

“See! I’m learning too! Here, I’ll try again. You try it again with me.”

Eventually she gets it and I rejoin the moms…the normal moms who don’t go to gymnastics with their children.

Inevitably, one is new. She hasn’t seen me do this week after week.

“How old is she? Give her time. She’ll grow out of it. I remember when…”

Again, I listen, but none of it applies to my foster daughter.

Grow out of it? I wish, but no. She’s grown into it. Grown up learning that people, and this world, bring pain, abuse. Grown up leaning that failure must be avoided at all cost if you want to avoid the beatings, if you want to eat that day. No. She won’t just “grow out of it.” If I let her, she would isolate herself from the world, never attempt anything, never grow mentally, developmentally, never grow at all.

No. It’s not just a stage.

To the mamas out there who’s friends try to encourage you by saying, “That’s okay. It’s normal,” know that you’re not alone.

I understand.

It’s not normal.

It’s not a stage.

You’re not crazy and you’re not the only one.

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(Note: I created the above image using Pic Monkey’s free photo editing website. Check them out here. This post may also contain affiliate links. For more information, read my Disclosure Policy here.)

Normal Parenting is Never an Option

06.04.2016 by Sarah //

I had an epiphany. At the Park.

My children and I had been tearing it up, alone at the small park, when another family showed up. A Dad and two sons.

My oldest child’s play changed immediately.

He was distracted, interested. He went through the motions with me but his eyes remained glued on that family.

And then he wandered over. Still observing, not close enough to them for me to call him back. Watching.

I ran after my other children, tagging them, laughing, but my mind was split. My heart guarded. What was he going to do? What was he thinking? Was this going to be a stepping stone to healthy interaction with other kids at the park, or a lesson in attachment?

This is what makes parenting our kids hard. Normal situations aren’t ever normal. Some of the signs and behaviors are text book. Sometimes we know exactly where a situation is going and why it’s headed that way, but many, many times we do not. Our kids’ life experiences are so very, very different than ours. It changes them developmentally in ways we won’t ever fully understand.

How do we lead them from where they are now to where they need to be when we don’t really understand where they are now?

That’s why I watched.

I watched my son as he inched closer to the other family. This wasn’t just a normal child seeing another kid on the playground and wanting to join them. No, there was something more, but what? Where was he now? How could I help him move closer to a healthy interaction with this family?

Was it the dad that drew him? Or, the family unit as a whole? Did he think they could give him something I couldn’t? If so, what and why?

None of this is normal. And that’s when the epiphany hit. I will have to be figuring out my son for the rest of his childhood. He’s a beautiful soul, and life with him is good. That afternoon at the park was wonderful. We laughed, had fun, chased, climbed. And all those experiences are just as much a part of him as the traumatic ones. His life, his neural synapses, are layers upon layers of good, bad and ugly. This means, my parenting won’t ever be normal, shouldn’t ever be default. And that’s what makes it hard, seeing the layers all mixed in together and helping him sort them out. It will be a lifetime of sorting. I just hope to do it well enough that I can help him become his own sorter.

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(Note: I created the images using Pic Monkey’s free photo editing website. Check them out here. This post may also contain affiliate links. For more information, read my Disclosure Policy here.)