Detaching from the Outcome

Okay - so do you ever have phrases and sayings that buzz around your brain for years - or am I the only one? Things like the Big Mac song:

Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun

Or chants like Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack? The theme from the Love Boat? Anyone remember Lilly Tomlin on Laugh-in..."one ringie dingie, two ringie dingies..."? How about all the words to Yellow Submarine?

It truly amazes me how these things stick in my brain, but I forget what the kid standing in front of me is called. And I probably named him or her. I once called my son Willie. He had to remind me that that was our dog's name. His name is Kris.

But I digress.

Therapist Lisa told me something the other day (or week, it's a little fuzzy). I was sharing how I am a very good starter. You know what I mean? I have lots of ideas - great ones, probably - and get all excited. I plan, think, scheme, research - generally spend a lot of time and energy on said Great Idea.

But implementation, that's a different story. Somewhere in the scheming I start to pull back. Maybe I get afraid. Maybe I'm unsure of how it's going to turn out, so I stop. No one likes to look stupid. No one likes to FAIL. Risk is risky, right?

But we've all heard, "nothing ventured, nothing gained"; and "if you keep on doing what you've always done, you'll keep on getting what you've always got". Pithy sayings like that.

What does all that mean, anyway? When you are in the throes of something you think might be good, might be fun, might be life-changing and you freak out...I can practically guarantee that those little slogans won't help you much. In fact, they seem to up the ante on pressure. "What ifs" trump pithy almost any day.

Therapist Lisa gave me a good one, though. She said that I needed to "detach from the outcome". Just that simple. Detach From the Outcome. Cool. Do your best, work it, and release. In fact, release while you are doing your best and working it.

Okay... so I'm trying it. And you know what? It's working. I'm dipping my frozen toes into the swirling hot tub of life. We'll see how it goes. I don't want to push my luck. Hot stuff can burn, you know.

But for now, this is me, detaching from the outcome and signing off.

My Mom Logic

I've been a mom for twenty-two years. Crazy. In that time, I've raised, helped raise, and am still raising a bunch of kids.

You would think I'd have tons to say about Mom Logic, but I really don't. I don't find anything logical in being a mom. Let me explain.

Back many moons ago, when my two original children were very young - Kris was maybe three and Kelsey was around six months old - things were really rough. The Divorce was in the works, and my ex-husband had fled Seattle for Louisiana. We were living with my mom, which had its ups and downs, because mom and I have history, and she was pleased about The Divorce. I wasn't.

I had a full time job downtown in a stock brokerage - which required a lot of dressing up and looking nice - was dragging both kids to and from daycare (on the bus), and doing all the other basic mommy stuff like shopping, cooking, laundry, doctor appointments, diaper junk, baths, teaching my son, Kris how to ride a bike...you get the point.

So, most of the time, I was exhausted.

The only thing that kept me going was my new faith. I was a baby Christian. This belief came at me from out of the blue. The last thing I'd planned on was "finding Jesus". After all, I was an enlightened Seattleite. We don't do Christianity. That's something for primitives (to paraphrase Deepak Chopra).

In fact, I was horrified when I took this step of faith. Terrified of what people would say. Not sure what that was about, I didn't have too many "people".

But I digress. So, here I am, an almost complete wreck, parenting two beautiful kids by myself and feeling the walls closing in. I remember sitting at the kitchen table after a long day of work and mommying. Kris was probably outside, my mom wasn't home yet, and Kelsey was sitting on the kitchen floor wrapped up in some toy. She was a fat little baby, pudgy little cheeks, pouty little lips, and a round little head with hardly any hair. You know, the kind you strain at getting one of those Velcro bows on so people will know she's a girl? Like the pink clothes don't say enough?

I remember sitting there with my head propped up on my hand watching her play. She had her back to me, and all I could see was her little round self hunched over whatever it was she had. The place where her head and her upper back met looked like they were stuck together - like she had no neck, kind of like a little snowman baby or something. Only with arms and legs. And not so pale.

As I watched her, exhausted from the day, and anticipating years more of this, a massive rush of love completely overwhelmed me. It almost made me cry.

This perplexed me. I asked myself: how can I love her so much? I mean, what the heck? She was a pooping, crying, hungry, drooling, demanding blob of personhood, requiring constant supervision and gobs of money. I had given up my rights to my own life for this insistent, ungrateful little thing...what was up with this crazy wave of emotion?

And I swear, I heard God say to me, deep in my heart, "That's how I love you. You offer Me nothing at all, you deny Me, you break all My rules, you take and take, and rarely say thanks. But, I would die for you, Kathy".

And I got it. There is no logic to it. Love is totally illogical (nod to Mr. Spock). But it's written deep in our hearts. We long for it. We die without it. Good mommies pour it out constantly, daily, for years and years. And frequently, we don't get thanks. We don't get fame. We don't get fortune. We get sleepless nights, ER visits, late night phone calls, wet shoulders from crying babies, crying toddlers, crying teenagers, and crying young adults. We get barf, coffee, ketchup and other junk on our white shirts. Sometimes, we get our hearts broken.

And we love them. We love our babies.

I'm sorry, I can't find any logic in that. And I'm completely fine with it.


This post is my entry for the Mother of All Bloggers contest. If it is chosen, I will be begging for your votes. Just a heads up! Thanks, everyone.

Avoiding Eye Contact

A few weeks back, Pastor Mark was talking about suffering people. Actually, he's been teaching on it for a few weeks, because he's been in 1 Peter, and there's a lot of suffering in there.

So, as he's talking about people being real, and allowing others into their pain, he said something about how when we know someone is in pain, we don't like to ask, because we don't like to see others cry and because we might feel like we have to do something for them.

This thought's been in my brain hanging around ever since.

Today, two things happened that brought it to the surface: I spoke with a young woman at church - let's call her, Sarah, who was with a little bit older woman in a wheelchair (let's call her, Anna). Now, Anna was probably mid-twenties, and she has CP (cerebral palsy) I think, and is kind of bent up. She had a tray on her chair with two things: a hand towel (which tells me she probably drools a bit), and a pink iPod docked in a speaker set attached to the wheelchair tray.

I saw these two at church last Sunday on Easter, sitting in the foyer together watching the service on the flat screen. They caught my eye for a few reasons, one of the biggies is that I completely identify with sitting out in the foyer with a person with special needs. Over the last fifteen years, I've spent many Sundays watching services from Nursing Mother's rooms (I have no nursing babies), foyers (even when there was room inside), and, most memorable, sitting on the sidewalk outside the church listening through the overhead speaker holding one of my special kids who was a bit challenging (to say the least). During those years, I honestly don't remember too many folks joining me so I'd have some company.

So I have a considerable amount of empathy here.

Today, Sarah and Anna were back. This time, just inside the doors of the sanctuary. I smiled as I went past the first time, having things to do - like picking up my kids from the nice people in children's ministry. When I came back up, they were out in the lobby, alone. Now, I don't know if anyone else talked to them, but I do know that a lot of conversation was happening around them. I went up. We talked for a minute. I asked her if she was a caregiver, and she said she only helped on Sundays. She is a friend of Anna's family and Anna loves to go to church - she loves the music and being around the people. Sarah is a young, attractive girl. I'm pretty certain she had other things she could be doing with her Sunday.

She chose to help Anna and Anna's family.

Last week, I saw her loading Anna into a van by herself, today she was standing by herself. Our church has hundreds of people milling around after services. They were alone. Two weeks in a row that I know about. I am not condemning our fellowship. Like I said, I don't know that no one spoke to them. All I can speak to is my personal experience in a variety of churches over the past fifteen years. Very lonely years. It's almost like having a person with intense needs puts a bubble around you. Like no one knows what to say, so they avoid eye contact, and move away. Or, they give you a quick smile, and move away.

This is how I feel when I see guys standing at freeway exits with cardboard signs. I avoid eye contact. I know that I really can't help them. I don't even know if they actually need my help. But, because I feel guilty that I am in my car, and they are standing out there with a sign, I avoid them. Avoid any chance of interaction.

Now, one time, Kameron was with me in the car and we were heading to Physical Therapy. I was stopped at the light, and there was a guy. Kam starting yelling, "Hi! Hi!" to him, being a friendly sort of nine year old. So, I rolled down the back window so he could say hi better. The man, turns out his name is Scott, was shaking Kam's hand and genuinely happy to talk to him for a second. In fact, he kept saying, "God bless you" to Kameron. This all makes me think.

Why do we assume that the less fortunate are wanting something from us? Yes, often they are, but sometimes, maybe all they want is for someone to stop and see them, talk to them, give them a second of human interaction in a kind way, not like they're freaks or something.

Doesn't that apply to all of us at some point in our lives? Haven't you ever had a time when you desperately needed someone to just see you? To ask you how you were and mean it?

I'm not sure where I'm going with this, but I guess I just want all of us to take a few minutes out of our lives and make that eye contact. Take a risk, say "hi" to the street person, go introduce yourself to that mom alone with all the kids or that person in the wheelchair.

I doubt that it will change the world, but I can almost guarantee it will brighten up theirs for a moment. And maybe yours, too.

Identity Crisis

Hi - I have to share something. I'm having an identity crisis.

See, I entered this blog contest (actually, you guys nominated me, but I solicited the nominations) called The Mother of All Bloggers. Cute name, right? And after getting nominated, I started thinking about it.

I've never actually labeled myself, or my blog. I just kind of write about where I am at the time I sit down in front of this keyboard. On rare occasions, I've had something extra to talk about (like the Mentoring Project), but usually, I don't edit myself overmuch.

Entering this contest has caused me to be tempted to want to win this contest. This led to me "checking out the competition", and reading some really neat blogs. The thing of it is is, first of all, we are all different types of bloggers. There are some mom blogs that are funny accounts of daily life being a mom (and let's face it, there's TONS of material) They had me rolling! There are some that focus on stuff like finding bargains and give-aways (neat concept, actually didn't know they were out there). There are "Christian" mommy bloggers, mommy book reviewer bloggers, mommy travel bloggers...

You get my drift? There's a whole world of mommy bloggers previously undiscovered by moi.

Me, I don't know where I fit in. I had to provide three categories for my blog to sign up for the Facebook Network app for blogs. I was seriously hard-pressed to narrow it down to three.

My writing comes from a pretty broad place. I'm an "empty-nester", I could write reams about how that's shaping up in my life - yet I'm still parenting three boys. I have special needs children, there are multiple facets to that experience - from the daily realities of meds, doctors, equipment, therapies, etc. to how it feels to sit beside your six year-old's hospital bed and tell God, "It's okay, you can take him now".

I'm a single parent - have been for twenty years - I remember the early years when it was just me and my two "original" children. How freakin' scary that was, how much I needed God because He really was all we had. I also am living that life now, with all that time under my belt, knowing you actually can have a son turn out pretty awesome without a dad, and a beautiful, well-adjusted nineteen year old daughter who doesn't hate you. Yet, I'm still raising this batch alone...

I'm a Christian. Struggling and fighting for my relationship with Jesus. Trying to keep it real and honest between Him and me, and bring my heart right.

I'm a daughter. Abandoned, adopted, alone.

I'm a foster parent, and adoptive mom.

I'm a woman. I frequently deny that part of me, but it's pretty much a done deal. I get lonely, I'd love to be wanted.

So, to try to narrow all that stuff down and laser-beam my ramblings in this blog...don't think I can. I write from my heart, and I hope what you read is helpful, or moves you in some fashion. That it benefits you, my readers, and that you find encouragement or hope, or just recognize that you are not alone in how you may be feeling.

I apologize in advance for not being easily categorized. Maybe I won't win any contests, but I will always be real about where I am. And I truly, truly hope that works for you.

Much love,

K

Reality Bites

Back in the mid-'90s there was a movie called Reality Bites. I haven't actually seen it, but the title's always intrigued me. It's one of those little snippets that move through my mind like those little floaty things you see in your field of vision...you guys do know what I'm talking about, right? You know, they look like junk you'd find under a microscope...?

Sometimes the strangest stuff will pop into my head. Like almost every time I participate in a group prayer - especially if we're standing up and holding hands - I inevitably want to say, "Keep coming back, it will work if you work it!" While swinging our hands back and forth. That's from my brief stint in Al-Anon. Also from Al-Anon, "Don't be in the middle arranging all the outcomes" (like that's possible), from SmokeEnders, "You're a puff away from a pack a day". Pitiful, I know. Such is the flotsam and jetsam in my head. No wonder I'm in therapy.

Anyway, lately I've been thinking a lot about the Skin Horse. That wise old toy from the Velveteen Rabbit. I say wise, because I can't remember how many pastors I've heard quote him, so he must be pretty darned wise - right?

This is another thing I've never actually read front to back. But I like the premise. The actual full title is: The Velveteen Rabbit or How Toys Become Real and it was written by Margery Williams back in 1922. Rabbit was a Christmas gift to a boy. The Boy loved him at first, for about two hours, and then Rabbit was quickly forgotten in the bedroom. I love how the author describes him as "shy" by nature, and says that most of the other toys put on airs and snubbed him - basically, this stuffed bunny had really low self-esteem. Only the Skin Horse would talk to him.

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

The Skin Horse Tells His Story

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

The Rabbit sighed. He thought it would be a long time before this magic called Real happened to him. He longed to become Real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad. He wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.

You can probably see why pastors like to quote this passage. I think we tend to want to listen to all the prosperity crap some preachers put out or the bad theology we make up ourselves; that we blame God for the mess in the world and in our lives (even the stuff we cause ourselves). In reality, Jesus spoke numerous times about having trouble in this world - He certainly did.

There's another scripture in the Old Testament that says that God has placed eternity in the hearts of men...maybe because that's in there (that longing for eternity), our hearts hurt over all the crap around us and in us. We know in our heart of hearts that it isn't supposed to be like this.

In the meantime, I guess the key is for us to remember that we are becoming Real. And, if we are honest with ourselves, the Realest people we know are the ones who've been through the most stuff and accepted it rather than blame, deny, and avoid it.

But, we all wish we could become it without these uncomfortable things happening.

I love you guys - thanks for listening.

Kobi Has a New Friend

Disclaimer: this post is a little...well, maybe a lot, creepy. Just so you have a heads up. No pun intended.

My eight year-old son likes to do hair.

Wow. It's so freeing to just come out and say that.

He's always been fascinated by it - combing out old Barbies, stealing his sister's hair ties, learning how to tease - you know. He's even gone so far as to arrange various types of laundry in jaunty 'dos on his head. Beehives made out of t-shirts, dishtowels for long, flowing locks...he's even braided bathrobe ties and given himself pigtails.

I'm sure you get the idea. He's a tad obsessed. Once he went on the computer, googled "french braiding", followed the links to YouTube and replayed said searched-for video too many times to count until he - at the age of eight - taught himself how to french braid.

Now, bear in mind that Kobi is struggling with his education. Math is NOT his friend. In third grade, he's getting way behind. Yet, he manages to search for, find, and implement instructions on weaving hair that most moms can't follow.

It gets weirder.

My older son, Kris, is getting married this summer to Kami, who just finished hair school. She has these styling mannequin heads for practice laying around her car. Kobi saw them and became - you guessed it - obsessed. All he could talk about was those heads. We tried a trial run to see how he handled them (because it's taken almost a year to get him to stop braiding his t-shirts), and predictably, it wasn't pretty.

Not only did he do "her" hair, he named "her" Viola, carried "her" around cradled in his arm all day, took "her" outside and stuck her on the fence (I kid you not), and, he had deep and meaningful conversations with her. WAY too freaky for this mom.

So, the mani-head went into timeout. Indefinitely. Like solitary confinement for life.

Meanwhile, Kobi's been working on a deeply personal matter that only occurs at night and requires the use of special night time items in order to keep his sleeping area...shall I say, dry?

This has been an ongoing source of much conflict with no apparent end in sight. I mean, he could go on his honeymoon needing pullups. SOOOO, being the on the ball mom that I am, I put two and two together and came up with a "reward" (and by reward I mean bribe) that I thought might finally do the trick: any morning he wakes up dry, he gets the mani-head.

Yep, I went there.

It's been months and months. TONS of wet laundry, etc., but Kobi has now managed four, yes four, dry nights. Not in a row, but hey - any progress is awesome in my book. His future bride will probably appreciate it, too.

Now the mani-head is back in the picture. And the funny part is, he's not quite as enamored with her. Yes, he still talks to her and smuggles her out to the yard, and yes, he sleeps with her next to him and GI Joe...but I'm afraid the honeymoon is over. I've seen him swinging her around by the hair out in the yard like the hammer in some grotesque track and field event.

If he's upping the ante in this payment for no pee deal, what the heck is bigger and more desirable than a mannequin head of your very own? Bubble gum?

Pray for me.

What's the Big Deal?

I never really got the message of Easter. It didn't make sense to me at all. As a child, I thought it was about getting dressed up in a new Spring dress, shiny white shoes and tights, going to church (one out of two times for the year), finding my Easter basket and having a yummy big meal. I had a cool plastic purse that played Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail. That was Easter to me.

So we observed it.

As a new Christian at twenty eight, with lots of sin under my belt (or "living" as we like to call it), and almost destroyed by the sins of others, I was enthralled by the entire Easter experience.

I was fresh with love for my Redeemer, feeling my heart beat in my chest after years of stony coldness...it was indescribable. I was overwhelmed with joy and a sense of freedom. Every worship song had a deep new meaning. The Spring season was a perfect metaphor for the new life I genuinely experienced. Forgiveness and love washed over and through me. Crazy joy.

This beautiful, tender, passionate sense of love and joy lasted for many, many years. Like being loved by a great man - a perfect Man. Easter was like our anniversary every year.

But then the world reared it's ugly head. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the shield around our relationship drooped. I let disappointments and unmet expectations distract me from Him and what He was saying to me, both in prayer and in His Word. Just as that Word says, the cares of the world rose up, choking His life in me. He never left me - He doesn't believe in divorce - but He honored my decision to do things my own way.

Years of struggle ensued. Terrible darkness and lonely, desperate nights of worry and fear were the norm. I cried out to Him, yet refused to listen to His answers. And I blamed Him for all of it.

Easter became a time of mourning for me. Mourning over what we had, what it could have been. No joy, no hope, no heart overflowing with love and singing with freedom.

More sorrow.

Years later I am just beginning to sense my heart stirring in its tomb. Afraid to come out. Afraid to hope again. But maybe there are signs of life.

The budding world around me makes me smile a bit; the fat robins pulling on worms almost distract me from the yard that is in disarray; white clouds against a blue sky catch my eye again, and certain songs sound like He requested them for me...maybe His tender, gentle love is winning again. Why He wants me, I still don't know. Especially now, when I've been so foolish and distrustful. A classic worrying, suspicious, nagging wife.

But this Easter feels different. This Easter feels more like a celebration and less like a wake. Resurrection? It's a big deal for me.

The biggest.

Bless you, my friends. May you listen to His voice wooing you today. If you hear it, don't turn away...

My Ungrateful Heart

I feel the need to beg forgiveness. Mostly from God, I guess, but also from my children, friends, co-workers, and everyone whose life is touched by mine in some way.

My sin, my problem (this one, anyway), is ungratefulness.

It seems like my focus is frequently on the difficulties of my life, and rarely, rarely on the joys, the benefits, the blessings I have. I hate this. I hate it when my children do it to me. You know, it's not the right cereal, you didn't buy yellow potato chips, we are out of milk (are you going to the store, mom?), blah blah blah.

Yet, I rationalize and defend (to myself) my "right" to complain about my lot in life. I'm not really overt in this negativity (am I?) but it has crept out of my heart like a low-lying fog, and is covering up the good stuff, making the blessings hard to see, distorting the reality of how good my life is, and dampening every interaction.

It's a subtle thing, this fog of the heart. Damp, pervasive, corrosive. I think it starts with a little - just a little - self-pity. "Man, I'm tired this morning", "Why don't the kids ever stop bickering?", "I have to clean the bathroom again?" . Next thing I know, these thoughts start coming out of my mouth: "Andrew, sit down in that chair, you'll spill milk all over your shirt!", "I've told you fifty times to FLUSH AND WASH YOUR HANDS!!", "CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR!"

And the angry, self-sorrowful, foul fog is wrapping me up in a cocoon. And everything I feel and say seems perfectly reasonable, even justified. Darn it.

They HAVE to sit down. They BETTER put the lid down and aim right! They SHOULD close the front door. They, they, they.

Reality: "They" are little children. "They" don't know, actually. It's my job to teach them. Right? Who is the adult here?

The Bible spends a quite a bit of time on this topic. Being grateful, thankful, content. It seems kind of important to God that we are grateful for what He's provided more than focusing on what He's withheld, or what this fallen world drops on us from time to time. And what's interesting is that when I do take time to pause before yelling, I start to notice again how darned sweet Andrew's goofy smile is or how hard Kobi is trying to do stuff right or how loving Kameron is under all his demands.

When I wake up and delay those "I'm not a morning person" thoughts, frequently I can hear the robins waking up outside, singing and pulling up fat Northwest worms for breakfast. I can hear the boys rustling around, identifying Kameron as he plops out of bed and onto the floor, on his way to my bedroom door to knock and say, "Good morning, mom, can I come in?".

And if I give God a chance to gently blow away some of that fog, I remember again why I am their mommie, and why I love it so much.

They still need to aim better, though.

The Mentoring Project

Don Miller, the man who wrote Blue Like Jazz- Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality is a busy guy. He's teaching writing seminars (see Into the Elements), participating in making a movie from Blue Like Jazz, writing a new book: A Million Miles in a Thousand Years; working with the Administration as part of The Center for Faith-based and Community Initiatives; developing a new TV show for kids called Biggles the Bigger Bee*; AND is the driving force behind The Mentoring Project, a mentoring program Don started a few years ago in Portland, Oregon.

Don believes, and I strongly concur, that the Church has the power to combat the epidemic spread of fatherlessness and its affects on the children of America. We aren't the only ones who feel this way, God is pretty firm on His position: He's pro His followers taking care of the poor, the weak, the widows, and the orphans. He talks a lot about it in His Book. Check it out.

As a fatherless child, as the mother to fatherless children, and as a Christian, I am glad and grateful to Don and his fellow MP peeps for this work. I will be promoting and praying for you. Thank you all.

Luke 14

12 He said also to the man who had invited him, “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. 13 But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, 14 and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. For you will be repaid at the resurrection of the just.”

Don's Blog





*Note: This is actually just a rumor. Neither confirmed nor denied at this time.

Eavesdropping

It's been awhile since I read an entire book in a day or two...well, at least one that's about God and faith. I did finish the Twilight series in like a week. And I've bought tons and tons of "Christian" books, because, well, I'm a Christian and I want to have a decent walk with God, and frankly, I need a lot of help with that. Sad to say, most of them are gathering dust on my bedside table, only a few chapters read.

But I finished Susan E. Isaacs memoir, Angry Conversations with God in about a day and a half.

First of all, the title is pretty intriguing. I tend to think I'm one of the few people in Christendom who are angry at God. I also have to say I love the back turned, pouty-faced, arms crossed bride on the cover with God reaching out to her. That too, I can identify with. I'm certain He's spent many many days in the past several years waiting for me to turn around and just listen to Him.

So when I read on Twitter via Don Miller's thread (@donmilleris if you tweet) that someone named Susan E. Isaacs was coming to his Portland church, Imago Dei, to read from her new book, Angry Conversations with God, I checked it out on Amazon.

Two days later, I'm done with it. I may read it again, and I rarely re-read books.

First of all, I am proud of her publisher, Faith Words, for bringing it out. From what I've seen in the Christian book market, some of her language shouldn't have made it into print. This makes me happy, just to be clear. Not that I love and embrace "bad language", but life is hard and sometimes we use strong enough language to express it. I am grateful that her prose wasn't sanitized. Her story was very honest, too.

Susan takes us through her Dark Night of the Soul. She shares her progress through the marvelous method of letting us listen in on her Couple's Counseling sessions - with God.

As a Christian whose been in a spiritually dark place for-well, for so many years now, I've lost track -it's heartening to hear from a contemporary peer experiencing God's silence too. She knows what it feels like to have an incredible closeness to Jesus, to have the sense of His Presence so real and so overwhelming that you understand why some of the old saints used to prostrate themselves. There are no words for it...and then it's like a door slams shut and He's moved on. No forwarding address.

She did the same thing I've done (hopefully, we aren't the only two believers to have done this), moving from church to church looking for that teaching, that worship, that fellowship, that supernatural something that will bring back the fire of our first Love. Ultimately, she tries to turn her back on Him. But love affair with Christ ruins you for the world. I can't imagine a more miserable person than one who has tasted and knows that the Lord is good, and then plunges into this spiritual darkness unprepared and ill-counseled.

Her anger towards God for this, her ultimate realization that she had expected God to give her the life she specified rather than embrace the life He had given her, totally spoke to me on so many levels.

Many years ago, I moved to Colorado Springs, answering "God's Call". The fifteen years that followed broke me down (a book-length story on it's own), and I still find myself blaming God. After all, didn't I move out there for Him? Doesn't He sort of owe me??

Wow. Arrogant little piece of clay, aren't I? My Creator owing me? Wacko.

Obviously, I still have a few issues to work through with my Heavenly Husband.

Stay tuned. Oh, and you should read this book.

I am SOOOO SORRY!!!

I have to apologize, profusely and thoroughly.

I wrote a blog post about my daughter, Elesha yesterday that really hurt her feelings, and in reading it again, I totally see why. My intention was not to do that, but to kind of vent/poke fun at my family in general. We have a fairly wacky bunch, and I tend to use this blog as my outlet for some of the wackiness. When I do that, I tend to exaggerate just a touch, for dramatic emphasis.

Elesha is a totally sweet, loving girl who has overcome much in her life, and still keeps on fighting. I have nothing but love and respect for her and again, completely appreciate her offering to care for my monsters. That doesn't happen very often. In fact, I am pretty certain Elesha is the only person to ever actually call me up and say she wanted to come over and babysit so I could take a break. And that is nothing to poke fun at. That is a genuine, loving heart that has a pure motive.

Again, my Elesha, I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I would never want to hurt you like that.

I hope you can forgive me.

With all my love, mom.

P.S. I owe you dinner and a movie.

Shiny Objects

Okay, so I left my cell phone at work tonight. I know, horrible, isn't it? You start finding out how darned much you live for that thing when you don't have it. I mean, I know I can drive down there tomorrow and pick it up. Not a huge biggie. But the ten minute drive home was really, really quiet. I didn't feel like listening to any music. Didn't want the noise, actually. So that just left me and my brain and the road. Way too quiet.

It got me thinking about something Lisa said to me during one of our first meetings. She said she thinks one of the reasons I have such a chaotic life is to keep me distracted. Interesting thought. I mean, how is she defining chaotic? Just because I have four small children at home (well, Klaryssia's seventeen, but really she's like six), three big kids in college, two part time jobs, a small, yappy, annoying dog, a house I can't keep clean or maintained, laundry that's never done, a car that's never washed, bills that barely get paid, a really messy kitchen, phones that never stop ringing, and the TV almost always on in the background, she calls it chaotic? What's up with that?

She says that one way we deal with uncomfortable or scary situations is by distraction. Evidently I take a lot of distraction.

And if that isn't enough background noise, there's always political issues I CARE about, the book I'm NOT writing, the pictures I WANT to take, the parenting I COULD be doing better, the floors I NEED to clean, the kid's fights I BETTER stop, the upcoming wedding of my son I SHOULD be helping plan...

I'm sure there are more things I have crammed on my plate.

Oh yeah, the relationship with my Heavenly Father I'm NEGLECTING, the parents I IGNORE, the friendships I'm NOT working at, the Bible I OUGHT to read...

You see a pattern here? My brain can't handle it. All the undone things, necessary and unnecessary, all the things I want to do and things I need to do, all the things I allow into my life swirl around in my head like water in a toilet that won't flush and are constantly overflowing.

This is what my therapist calls "distraction". She says I do it to make my brain stay so busy and overwhelmed that I can't possibly have time or energy to deal with what's actually bothering me. I shift my attention to the noisy present and have real reasons to justify my inability to take care of life (or myself) perfectly. Strike that, at all.

In short, I have created my own Chaos. My own little hell on earth.

Interesting.

This observation sneaked in through one of the little cracks in the wall around my heart while my phone was sitting alone at work and my car radio was off. The thing is, I found myself afraid of the quiet and afraid of my thoughts. Wow. Afraid to think? Afraid to allow my mind to wander without purpose, without a problem to be solving? Dang, how did that happen??

I think the wall is finally cracking is because my heart's had a few major setbacks this year. My son is marrying and getting his life apart from mom underway; my older daughter safely sent off to an awesome college...and I'm home with the little kids alone.

I am proud, sad, and a little jealous all at once. Proud, of course, because they are making way better choices than I ever did or could have at their age. Sad, because they are seriously fun and interesting people who love me and listen to me and make me laugh. I am missing their company big time. And jealous, because I sincerely wish I'd had the chance to live my young adulthood the way they are now.

Sucks frankly. And the temptation to hustle up more distractions away from these and other truths is huge. I want to have a glass or four of wine; watch a really empty TV show, try to read a novel, take a three hour bath, play Mafia Wars on Facebook...

But, maybe God wants me to try to accept some of this stuff and work through it with His and Lisa's help so I can actually live this life instead of trying to hide from it within the cocoon of chaos and guilt I normally weave around me. Maybe it's time to try to be a beautiful, healthy butterfly instead of a rotting caterpillar trapped inside my aging home.

Then again, it's pretty cozy in here...

More Spring Break

Okay, so this week my elementary kids and high schooler are home. It's just crazy how many days they are out of school. How does any normal, work-in-an-office parent do it? GAH!

I love my kids, but boy, this is too much togetherness.

One of the big challenges is Kameron's lack of mobility. We don't have a wheelchair van, so that means lifting him a lot and hauling his wheelchair in and out of the car. It wasn't such a big deal when he was younger, but now he's nine and weighs more. His chair is bigger, too. He also doesn't help much with the transfers. All this tends to make me think several times before attempting a trip out, even to the store. I'm also realizing that all the "handicapped accessible" places aren't very. Accessible, I mean. Lots of unexpected stairs.

Now, this isn't something a typical family deals with. My previous parenting experience was fairly straightforward. But, since Kam's still not walking (he keeps trying!), I guess I better face the reality that he'll be in his chair for awhile, if not for his lifetime (toungue biting here - that's DEFEAT, isn't it??).

Crazy as it seems, I never allowed for the possibility that he wouldn't walk. Somewhere in my brain was the idea that God + me = overcoming any and all obstacles. Guess I should have read my Bible a little closer. Sometimes bad things don't get taken care of this side of heaven. Kameron very likely will remain non-ambulatory (big words for not walking). Really, I need to be way more grateful that he's even alive.

All the really big health challenges he has had in his nine short years. Born very premature - at 25 weeks - drug exposed, lungs barely developed, ventilator dependent, fed with a tube in his tummy, for his first three years. We get him over all that, then massive brain junk starts. Too weird and complicated to go into in depth, but basically, he's had over thirty procedures trying to stop large fistulas (nests of arteries) in his head that don't belong there and posed a real risk of stroke and hemorrage...all that culminated in brain surgery last August 1st. Thirty-two stiches in his little cranium.

Ugh AND gah.

He's doing so much better, now. He's trying to learn math, and writing, and reading...loves the Bible, music, and me. Well, he loves all of us, except when someone says no. But that's another story.

So, actually, I have got to be way more grateful for his little life and less focused on the difficulties. Perhaps if I pray about these challenges...what a concept: stress less and pray more!

Gotta go, got Someone to talk to.

Tulips in the Mud - Originally posted 4/28/08

One of my favorite things to do in Washington is the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival. It's held each year in April, and usually happens around the same time as our church retreat.

There are miles of blooming tulips planted in groups by color. Each section is about 1/4 mile wide and maybe 1/2 mile long. All of these fields are down in the Skagit Valley, which lies between the Cascade Mountains on the east - still snow capped - and the Puget Sound on the west. There are red barns here and there, and old farm houses that have been restored (or kept in really great shape). And the Skagit River wanders through the whole valley.

I don't have words to do it justice.

The Festival was scheduled to start April 1st and run through the 30th. Our retreat was scheduled for the weekend of the 25th, and it was pretty likely that the tulips would be past their prime by then.

But God arranged the weather this year to so that it was unseasonably cold. In fact, we had snow a week ago. Hey, it doesn't snow up here near sea level very often! Especially in April. So I held out hope that the tulips might be late in blooming.

We headed up to retreat, and honestly, no one but me cared about the tulips. This is my thing. I talk it up big time, but people kind of glaze over when I bring it up. I think they take that beauty for granted. I lived in the high desert for twelve years. Tulips don't grow out there. Tumbleweed does - I kid you not.

Okay, so up to Stanwood we go, the retreat is awesome, God's Spirit is speaking, lives are changing, I am praising Him... and wondering how the tulips are.

My friend didn't really want to go. But I can be pretty persuasive. She relented and on our way home Sunday we drove the 15 extra miles to see them.

It was so worth it.

Even Steph agreed once we got there. We didn't stay long, just drove up to one spot and pulled over to take some pictures and bask in God's glory.

As we headed back to the car parked in the mud by the side of the road, I saw something I would call a sacred delight. Two red tulips far far from their brothers and sisters were poking through the mud. Seriously, these two were about twenty feet from the fields, and the mud they were in was where thousands of cars had parked over the past four weeks of the festival.

It made me think of Hind's Feet on High Places. There's a flower in there that Much Afraid meets that is growing up through the rocks where nothing else is growing, and its name is Acceptance With Joy. I want to be that flower, that little red tulip growing in the mud of life. Blooming where I'm planted, even if it's far from the field where everyone else is, and isn't a very pretty place.

The ugliness of the mud makes the beauty of the tulip stand out that much more.

Disappointments

My daughter, Klaryssia was heartbroken last night.

She works as an unpaid helper for the Value Village near her high school. It's part of a vocational training program for higher functioning students in the special needs program who have educational goals directed toward independence after graduation. Well, semi-independence. Klaryssia will have to live in some type of supported living situation no matter what. She won't ever be able to live on her own.

It's not just safety concerns, although there are plenty of those. She is seventeen and is still learning basic household precautionary stuff. Like when she helps rinse dishes for the dishwasher, she usually turns the water all the way hot - not realizing that she could burn her hands. She's not safe with knives yet, either. She handles them like a young child might with no awareness of the danger from the cutting edge.

Basically, she's a six-year-old teenage girl. Her hormones and feelings are right up there around her chronological age, but her educational, social, and emotional functioning is somewhere in the first grader range. I think that's about as high as she will get.

Now, on the one hand that could be great for her. Living in a early elementary school daze just before the world gets really painful could be sweet. How simple life was in first grade, remember? Snacks and naps and coloring "I Love You" cards for everyone...Klaryssia will still pick yellow dandelions and bring them home for me and put them in water.

But on the flip side, she has that teenage thing looming. Not just the wild hormonal mood swings, but the trying to grow up stuff, too. She doesn't really have friends. For one thing, she is pretty annoying. Truly. Despite all the medications she's on, she has an incredibly amped up metabolism. This hyper-metabolism frequently results in non-stop talking at above conversational levels, and at such a high rate of speed very few people can understand what she's saying. She wants to be understood though, so she will repeat what she's saying over and over until you semi-get it.

Usually, these conversations are about her. What she had to eat today, what she will have to eat for her next meal, what her plan is for the day(taking a shower, taking out the garbage...etc), and she usually has the weather forecast for the week. Occasionally, she will throw you a bone, like, "What did you have for lunch today?". If you stop and ask her does she really want to know, she'll answer honestly, "No".

At school in her contained classroom there are a few kids that are pretty impulsive (that's the PC word for out of control). Because she can be so up in their faces and so annoying, she often gets punched.

Not too many friends.

So, here she is at Value Village. There of course, are co-workers that are what we in the Special Needs universe call "typical" people. This means they aren't mentally retarded. At least they don't appear to be. Most of last week and up through yesterday, Klaryssia came home very excited (she usually is about something). Apparently, co-laborer was due to celebrate her birthday, and wanted Klaryssia to come. I, the dutiful mom, asked who this person was. The information got non-informative.

Her age went as high as forty-two and as low as sixteen (after I expressed some doubt about my seventeen year old going to a forty-two year old's party). I told Klaryssia what I always do. Bring me home something in writing about this party and we will see.

Nothing ever made it home. But yesterday was apparently party day. She came home from school talking non-stop. Party, party, party. In Klaryssia's mind, her friend was going to call her and tell us where it was to be. She had a vague idea that it was on "119th Street". No address, no phone number for the friend, but it was supposed to start at 4:30.

Klaryssia raced through her chores, took a shower, got into clean clothes and had her jacket and purse set out in the living room, all ready to go. Then she waited.

Klaryssia can tell time. She watched the clock. She watched the phone. Her brothers came home on the bus. I started dinner. Every once and a while, she would remind me that her friend would be calling to tell us where the party was.

Of course, she never called.

Klaryssia started crying around 5:30. She was inconsolable. She wouldn't even eat dinner (and Klaryssia LOVES food). I don't know when she finally stopped crying, her eyes were pretty swollen this morning when she got up. When I asked her if she was okay, she said "Sure", and started telling me about how this friend would be at work today and something about how they would have fun...then she showed me a piece of gum this person apparently gave her yesterday. We spent a few minutes talking about that and how awesome it was that her friend gave her this gum.

Today, Klaryssia will go back to Value Village and see this lady who for whatever reason - probably well-intentioned but uninformed - did not make it clear to a little retarded girl that she wasn't actually invited to the party. I'm sure that this lady has no idea how truly important it was to Klaryssia. How very focused on the party she was, and how utterly heart-broken she was when it didn't happen. I'm also sure that Klaryssia won't tell her, because in Klaryssia's mind, it's all okay. She's excused this person, made up a story in her own mind that makes it okay.

I however, am her mom. And I will remain heartbroken for Klaryssia. I don't have any help for this, I can't make it go away for her. But I do wish people would realize that mentally retarded people do actually have feelings. We may not understand them, and we may not completely identify with them, but they are people. I love my odd ball daughter, and I am hurting for her today.

Who's My Daddy?

Man church Sunday really rocked my world. We've been going to Mars Hill in Seattle for few months. Pastor Mark Driscoll is working through 1 and 2nd Peter: http://www.8witnesses.com/ Sunday was just on 1 Peter 3:7. The full text reads:

1 Peter 3:7 ESV: Likewise, husbands, live with your wives in an understanding way, showing honor to the woman as the weaker vessel, since they are heirs with you of the grace of life, so that your prayers may not be hindered.

From this, Pastor Mark spoke to the men (my 22 year old engaged son, too) about being husbands, about understanding their wives (and daughters), what showing honor toward us looks like, and how women are weaker vessels, needing gentle handling - he said women are goblets and men are thermoses. Cute illustration.

And he spoke (pretty heatedly) about what God thinks of men who fail to do these things. About wimpy men and overly MANLY men. He spoke of how frustrated he gets when men neglect their responsibilities as men. He spoke of it passionately. And loudly. I've never heard him that intense before. It was great, actually.

The funny thing is, this sermon - written for the men - had a profoundly moving and unexpected affect on me. I felt protected, important. For the first time...ever?

I am the divorced single mother of two biological, four adopted, and two foster children. I am also adopted myself, and my adoptive parents divorced when I was eleven. Dad experimented with other women over the years of their marriage, and finally found a family he liked better.

Along the way I've experienced what seems to be the standard amount of abuse from an older brother, strangers, men who weren't strangers, and my husband. In short, I don't think I've ever felt safe or cherished. Never very important. No one gave me away at my disastrous wedding, no daddy checked into who I was dating in my equally disastrous teens. He doesn't really keep track of me now. My mom was too busy trying to support us to pay attention either. You can imagine the type of guys I ended up with. Briefly.

Long involved story short, Christ got my attention in my late twenties and my life changed considerably. But despite all the healing He's brought (and there's been much), there are still some pretty deep pains that I've never allowed Him to have. Maybe I didn't know they were there. Thus Lisa, the Therapist (see earlier posts). Everyone knows that these injuries fester if not dealt with - even I am not strong enough or "spiritual" enough to avoid the consequences forever. But I've sure spent a lot of energy and time trying to.

Back to Sunday. As Pastor Mark spoke about what men should be, about what God created dads and brothers and husbands to be, my spirit responded immediately and I lost it. I didn't turn into a blubbering idiot, but I sure needed a tissue box.

The message uncovered - gently - the gaping wounds in my heart that were there from the lack of a daddy. The boo-boos he never kissed away. The tucking ins that never happened. The "I love you"s and being daddy's little princess. Maybe it would have been easier if I never knew dad. Having him around but never noticing me...ouch. Then he left and married a woman with three beautiful daughters, my step-sisters. I kid you not. Straight out of a fairy tale or something.

Anyway, the point is that Pastor Mark's message about how God expects men to be lifted a weight I've carried unconsciously all my life. It isn't my fault that stuff happened. It's very very sad, but not my fault. My father was supposed to be my daddy and he wasn't. My dad, my brother, my ex-husband - all these guys will have to stand before God one day (if they don't repent) and answer to Him because they hurt His little girl.

Of course, I bear responsibility for choices I made out of that pain, and there is bitter unforgiveness I need to address. But Jesus spoke to me Sunday at a real level. He told me that I am His baby girl, His little princess, and I deserve to be treated that way.

Powerful stuff, God's Word in the right hands.

BTW, here is the link to the message. I highly recommend it.

http://www.marshillchurch.org/media/trial/marriage-and-men

Help! The Inmates Have Taken Over the Asylum!

Okay, so at some point in my illustrious parenting "career" the balance of power shifted. Subtlety, so insidiously that I never even suspected it, our family went from a solid dictatorship with all my little subjects firmly under my boot to a full-on rebellion with the entire population participating. In fact, they have me on the run.
I find myself hiding in my room, earbuds in listening to Praise music in a desperate attempt to regain my calm Center.

It is amazing how completely three (sometimes four if Klaryssia isn't having one of her many daily naps), small children can toss off parental guidance and discipline.

Whatever. All I know is that my initial parenting go-round was infinitely easier. Kris and Kelsey, my"original"children, were pretty easy-going. They had thoughts and opinions on things - but for the most part, they were agreeable to rules and went along with them. Of course, here and there they threw down the gauntlet and challenged my authority. But really, they were kind of easy to parent. Which was truly a blessing because as a single mom working full time and attending school, if they hadn't been such awesome kids...I don't even want to think about where we might be today. They made a difficult situation easier to bear, and I appreciate them beyond words.

Now, this second batch of kids. My Little Rebels. They tend to make every situation way more difficult then it ever needed to be. Everyday situations become major skirmishes. They must love the thrill of battle.

They have no use for my rules unless one of them is looking for protection under them.
Instead, they are writing their own rule book. I guess it's good they are trying to be united in their dissent. It's the only thing they agree on.

One of the biggies is the Rule of Mine: if I want it, it's mine; if I have ever played with it before, even if it's been lost under my bed for three years and you find it, it's mine; if I put it down for another toy and now you want to play with it...it's MINE. You get the picture. Sometimes the Rule of Mine is applied to my stuff. Kameron will decide he'd like to play with my laptop. Or drive the car. Or flatiron his hair. Under the New Rules, he has this authority. See how it works? They ought to work for the Government. Kind of make it up as you go along.

This sets us up for countless conflicts throughout any given day. Because they are loyal soldiers, they wake at oh-dark-thirty most mornings. Before my alarm goes off, the battles have begun.
I'm not a lover of conflict, but since there is no second in command most days, I have two choices: rise and prepare for war, or pull the covers back over my head. Guess which one I prefer? I'll give you a hint, I have a wonderful, fluffy, down comforter. My friend says I love my bed so much because I spend so little time in it...but I digress.

They also like to take turns being the Food Nazi. For example, say it's breakfast time. We have a house rule (mine) that we eat with good manners. You know, chew with your mouth closed, don't talk with a full mouth, use your napkin, no spitting, drink your own milk, don't put your feet up on the dining room table. That sort of thing.

When one of them is acting as a Food Nazi, he or she invokes this rule: all the good manner rules apply to everyone but me, and I must tell mom at the top of my voice with a full mouth every time anyone else is committing a good manner rule infraction. And, when he or she tries to turn it back on me, I am "not your friend anymore!"

BTW, that is the major punishment doled out by the rebels. "I'm not your friend anymore!" is the cry d'jour. In fact, I found myself uttering it only yesterday. After refereeing I don't remember how many fights, I finally told one of them (can't remember which, it's all a blur) "Well, I'M NOT YOUR FRIEND ANYMORE EITHER!" This was a sign to me that I had truly lost most, if not all, control over my little domain.

That, and the fact that when my college aged Kelsey came home for a quick visit, I locked myself in my room with my TV at full blast and the covers over my head. I came out when they all went to bed.

See, I think the balance of power has definitely shifted and the inmates have won. In the immortal words of Alexander (of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day): I think I'll go to Australia.

Oh, they have kids there, too. Sigh. Is there no escape?

Klaryssia is a Typical Teenager...sigh

I've been parenting special needs children for fifteen years. In those years, I've learned a few things - not too many, but a few. I potty-trained a nineteen year old developmentally delayed girl with severe CP and seizure disorder. I cared for an ANGRY, dying young man with Duchenne's Muscular dystrophy who used to attack his mother with his power wheelchair. In fact, I took him on a 4,000 mile camping trip to the Grand Canyon, Sea World, Disneyland, Seattle, and back to Colorado. Interesting trip.

I parented a deaf and mentally delayed teen aged boy who would hit anyone with no particular provocation and was incontinent at night. I helped nurse a baby born at 25weeks who was ventilator and feeding tube dependent to relative independence and amazing cognitive development (see any of my posts about Kameron). I've worked lots of other children with a variety of challenging disorders, damaged family backgrounds, and severe behavior issues.

But I just don't get Klaryssia.

Klaryssia is my daughter. I adopted her at age eight; she's been in my home since she was six. She has a laundry list of possible diagnoses (many of these kiddos do), some of which are MR, DD, ADHD, RAD, and OCD. That translates: mentally retarded, developmentally delayed, ADHD (duh), reactive attachment disorder, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. She's on a varied assortment of medications. We've been working with several doctors over the years to tweak them. Her behaviors and moods make it hard for her to play well with others, in spite of all the meds.

She's seventeen now. So, in addition to her typically crazy/compulsive/out-of-control stuff, throw in puberty and teenaged angst. Yep, not only is she a "Special Child", she is a teenager, too.

She stomps away when she's mad. She slams her door. She bursts into tears unexpectedly. She yells at her siblings. She yells at me. She says stuff like: "I help wash dishes!" at really odd times, like that's supposed to explain why she's acting like a fool. She accuses me of not knowing anything. She also tells everyone else what to do, as if she's their mother. This of course, doesn't go over well with the the younger sibs. It REALLY doesn't go over well with the older ones. And, perhaps most importantly, it doesn't go over well with me. She yells at my kids more than I do. I have a fairly laid-back parenting approach. I mean, there is enough stress and strife inherent in our living situation. No one needs to stir the pot up unnecessarily, right?

That being said, I'm always game for someone else to be in charge of the zoo. Unfortunately, I don't think Klaryssia has the tools needed to take over. After all, I still shave her legs. She, however is pretty convinced that she can do a better job mothering than me.

Just like a few other teen aged daughters I've had. Come to think of it, I might have been a bit like that, myself...

Maybe she's not that different, after all.

Putting on My Oxygen Mask First

Have you heard that illustration that professionals use to encourage self-care? They say that ensuring time for yourself is like what they tell you on a plane: put your oxygen mask on first, then help those around you.

In theory, that makes a lot of sense. I mean, if you are choking and gasping and about to pass out, it's probably going to be difficult to take care of anyone else effectively - or at all.

But in practice...

I've been seeing this awesome counselor. Now, for years and years I've been one of those "Oh, you're seeing a Therapist?" kind of girls. Like wow, good for you (I'm perfectly fine, but hey, great, happy for you). Seriously. Kind of annoyingly "strong" but honestly understanding how other people could need therapy. I mean, it's a really nasty world out there. Even as a Christian, those slings and arrows can just wear you down. But every now and then, the inner pain and damage I have walled away in my deepest heart starts to seep through the cracks, and the fear of facing it in order to maybe, just maybe get it fixed has had me running for the hills (or a few glasses of wine!).

Lisa says this is dis-integration. An apt word, really. You have these dis-integrated, segregated chunks of your personality that are so wounded you try to keep them hidden and "safe" because it feels like if you allow anyone access to them you will, quite literally, die.

Thankfully, God brought Lisa into my life at this time, because I honestly can't shove the pain back any longer. Whatever is lurking behind that crumbly wall around my heart is winning. I can't keep running around it trying to hold it together any more.

For the sake of my children, and maybe for myself, it's finally time to look at these fears and feelings and hope that, by God's grace, mercy, and love, I won't be consumed by them. No clue what it all involves. Not especially thrilled by the prospect - in fact it scares the hell out of me - but, hopefully I'm finally convinced that it is not only necessary, but essential to the survival of myself and those around me.

The masks have dropped, and I'm reaching for mine. I'll try to keep everyone posted on what comes next.

VICTORY!

So sorry people! I couldn't remember where the heck my blogspot account went! This is what happens when you have multiple email
addresses. Well, and when you are edging up the hill into mid-middle age. I'll leave the definition of that up to your imagination.

What to blog about?

We have a new (ish) family member, Andrew. He's only four and quite the little man. Lots of issues-he was in seven placements before he turned four-and we've had quite a road trying to help him understand what kind of behaviors are okay: saying please, using "indoor" voices, etc., and what behaviors aren't okay: hitting, throwing toys, spitting, and some insanely bad language.
He's still getting used to a mom that cooks (most of the time), and reads to him at bedtime.

After all these years you would think I'd be used to how damaged these kids are, but it still blows me away. He used to think that every time he went to preschool, he'd be going back to a different house. Every move he had prior to our house was a surprise. Go to the babysitter in the morning, have a new "mom" in the evening. Wow. Why do we wonder at the high juvenile crime rates? Take a small guy like this and twist him up - what do we expect?

One of my biggest prayers is that every stable, sane, responsible adult would choose to be a foster parent. It doesn't take some sort of super person, or "special" person (I get really tired of people telling me how special I am), it does take someone willing to open their home and their heart to ONE damaged child. Just one. They are small. They don't take up much space. They need you a lot.

Think about it.

Not So Hot Today...

I'm having a not-so-hot day.

It's one of those days when I'm feeling the weight of my responsibilities and, I guess, allowing the enemy's arrows into my heart.

It's one of those days when I try to reach out to a few people, and get shot down... When the best "advice" I get is that I knew what I was getting into when I adopted these kids; basically, it's the same "advice" my mom got from my Grandmother decades ago when she was having trouble in her marriage: you made your bed, now you have to lie in it. That was when dad was having multiple affairs, and my mom wanted to leave him and come home to Grandma.

Wow. Incredible empathy and tender-heartedness. Can't we allow the people we say we love to have bad days, and let them hurt? Can't we be a place where it's okay to be hurting?

Charlie Peacock wrote a song based on Job called Now is The Time For Tears. It said, in part, "Stay with me, don't try to fix me, friend. That's how you'll comfort me."

Today, I need some comfort. The kind that comes from a person and has two ears, two arms, and a big heart.

See what I mean? I'm letting the enemy beat me up. The fact that I'm alone in this gig -- both the parenting thing and the world in general -- is a super-tough place for me. Sometimes it's much harder than others. I've been doing it for over eighteen years and sometimes it wears me down.

My family members are few and scattered. I've got a brother somewhere in California, and my mother is in Colorado. That's about it.

I had some really fun news yesterday, but found myself with no one to call. No one to share the fun with. Well, that's not true. I tried to share it with a few people, but no one really cared. No one grasped how special it was to me, personally.

That's what started this little spiral down.

Today, I'd like a drink.

And a man.

And a trip to Mexico or something.

Ouch.

Ahh... To Have An Active Imagination...

My seven-year-old, Kobi, gets... shall I say, fascinated? Obsessed may be closer to the truth, but fascinated sounds kinder.

He will latch on to something -- a book, a movie, an idea -- and will spend days or weeks or months involved with this new object of his attention.

The object has changed a few times. The first time I noticed it, he was freaking out over the movie version of
Hairspray.

Kobi's seen that movie maybe thirty times. Possibly more. When he was allowed his time on the family computer, he would Google the songs, and watch the YouTube videos over and over and over and over. He knows all the songs and all the dance moves. He says the lines along with every part.

Scary.

Thankfully, he has a good voice, and can dance. So it's pretty entertaining, in a super-annoying kind of way.

Then, it was learning to French braid hair. He found a YouTube video on that. It took him a few days, and the grudging cooperation of his older sister, and Kobi taught himself how to French braid. He actually does a very good job.

This is my seven year old.

Recently, he watched the Johnny Depp version of Charlie and the Chocolate factory. He is-- even as I write this--rolling around on the floor wrapped in his blue Nemo comforter. His tummy is stuffed with some pillows.

He is a Blueberry.

Boy, if I had just a smidgen of his imagination...

As it is, he kind of makes me tired.

My son is off to Colorado...

It was a busy weekend, but lots of fun. In keeping with the amazing weather in the Northwest, my little family and I went to the ocean Saturday for a whirlwind day of kite flying on the beach, picnicking, and shell collecting.

Sunday was church, then a late lunch out and Prince Caspian. Lots of fun, but not much resting up for the week ahead, and not much writing!

I did have some good time revising my thumbnail outline, and got some great input from my police expert, so as soon as I can carve out a few more hours, the second, and possibly third chapters will be done.

My babies are sick, though. Kameron has ongoing issues with his brain; he's scheduled to go back into the hospital the first week of June for more embolization; and now, Kobi has a persistent, hacking cough. Since he's had serious lung issues in the past, I probably need to take him into the doctor tomorrow.

Meanwhile, my oldest son, Kris, is going back to Colorado Springs for a week-long visit. This is super for him, but the timing is never great for me! =)

I know that I need to lean more on God and less on my two oldest children, though. They both go back to college at the end of the summer, and it will be on me to provide the care for the three munchkins left behind. Hey, He won't take us where He can't keep us--right?

I'm off to bed. Busy day ahead!

Sunshine in Seattle!

It's the rare sunny and hot day here!

In Seattle, when the weather gets warm - say above 50 - we all slip into our summer shorts and venture out into the world.

People call in sick. Parents keep children home from school. Picnic lunches are packed, and we all head outside.

See, up here in the Great Northwet, I mean west, we appreciate our sunshine. Folks in California and Florida and places like that don't understand.

They think 50 degrees is chilly. They bust out a sweatshirt when the temp dips below 65.

Well, you all can keep it; and your skin cancer and leathery skin. I'll keep my pale skin and dewy soft complexion. And the big fat earthworms, and slugs, and mildew, and rust...

Ah, but today, the sun is shining!