Why Special Needs Kids?

Okay, so we've established that I'm completely nuts. Not only did I decide, fifteen years ago, to become a foster parent as a single mother, I already had two children, but what the heck??? I decide to be the foster parent to special needs children. See? Nuts. But wait, there's more!

THEN I decide to adopt some of the little boogers. Whoa. Certifiable.

Yes, I agree. People tell me I'm a freakin' saint. Not so. Not so at all, in fact.

I think it's more obedience. Foolish, sold-out obedience.

See, back when I was doing the big house, tons of foster kids, crazy ranch thing, I was also practicing a very simple faith. He said it, so I believed it.

His Word said to love as I'd been loved. I'd been transformed by His love, so I knew it was real. Therefore, I needed to love that way. Simple, right? Along came my first disabled foster children. Okay, they're a little odd. Yes, it was weird having teenagers in (gulp) diapers. But that love thing? It didn't have any strings about diapers on it that I could tell.

So, I loved them. And God took care of us.

More special kids came. Come to find out that "love" thing can cover a whole bunch of inexperience and lack. I learned about PTs, OTs, STs, and all the other "t"s. (Therapies). I learned about a whole cornucopia of medicines. Meds for Seizures, meds for constipation, meds for ADD and OCD and all that stuff. I literally had a tool box locked up filled with meds for these children.

Oh yeah, children. They were little people. On the foster care totem pole - which already has an awful lot of damaged and unwanted children - the DD/Special kids were pretty much at the bottom.

But they are children. And they are people. Little people let down by parents who probably were damaged themselves. Some of my kids were from "typical" homes where the dad couldn't hang and took off, leaving a mom alone with a child she couldn't find resources to raise. The way our system is set up, if you have a job and a special kid, you won't get much help. If you put him or her into foster care, though, then they can receive all kinds of services. Or, you can quit working and go on "assistance" yourself. Decisions, decisions.

So along the road of just loving these children, I found out a funny thing: I actually did love them.

Beyond the diapers and drool and slurred speech and repetitive behaviors and braces on body parts and range of motion and equipment needs and meds and doctors appointments and tooth brushing and IEP meetings and hospital stays and fighting with everyone to advocate for these kids . . . is the bottom line fact that they are children. They didn't ask to be born. They especially didn't ask to be born the way they are. They didn't ask to be abused or neglected or abandoned.

Someone has to care.

And I'm exceedingly glad it's me.

¹²He 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. ¹³But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind, ¹⁴and you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you. Luke 14:12-14a

A Shameless Plea ...

Hi all -

The following is a shameless plea for help.

As many of you know, my now eleven year old son, Kameron, has had a pretty tough road. He was a 25 week premie with a grade four brain bleed (translated: he was born 3 months early because his biological mom couldn't stop hitting the crack pipe while she carried him and he should have never survived his extreme prematurity); after he came into my foster home at a year, on a ventilator and with a feeding tube in his tummy, he thrived, and around 3 years later, was off the vent, had the tube removed, and was looking great.

Then, when he turned five, he inexplicably began having massive migraine headaches, vomiting, seizures, and stroke-like symptoms. Turned out he had some crazy thing called Arteriovenous Malformations. Lots of them. They are kind of like aneurisms in his brain, threatening to burst and kill him. More than thirty procedures, including brain surgery, later - no more major seizures. In fact, he's been mostly seizure free since August 2008. Awesome!

So, now we address his other physical issues. Little man can't walk. He's been scooting on the floor, and with a special walker (called a gait trainer), he can move around some. To the Orthopedist we go. Now, we've been going to the Ortho doctor for years. But, this time, when we did a check-in hip x-ray, this is what it showed:

Now, I'm not a professional, but these babies looked bad, even to me. He needed surgery on both hips. The operation included cutting through both femurs (say WHAT?), bolting them back in the right place, and rebuilding his left hip socket.

Sure, says I. We can handle that. Ha. "We"? Kam's the one who went through it all. I just helped with the after care stuff. The surgery was September 14th, 2010. It lasted six hours, and he came out in a thing called a Spica Cast. It encased him from just below his nipple line down to his ankles, made him look a lot like a little plastic cowboy, you know, how their legs are in the ready-to-sit-on-the-saddle position? Like that.

And yes, there was a hole in the front and back for the personal hygiene stuff. Enough said.

He was home the entire six weeks, mostly because he was doped up on pain meds the first two weeks, couldn't poop the next one (kidding, kind of), and really because the only wheelchair I could fit him in was completely unable to be transported on a special bus. He had a tutor for a few hours each morning, Mr. Steve.

Transferring him from place to place - like bed to commode to wheelchair - was accomplished with the help of a thing called a Hoyer Lift. That's the pic at the top of this post.

Okay, so we get through this. He has the cast removed, and we start physical therapy, pool therapy, and getting back to school therapy. What didn't I plan for? Oh yeah. He's had major surgery on both of his legs. And both hips. Hummm. Guess there will be some weakness, pain, and general tough stuff. Yep.

But, he's a tough kid. "Survivor" doesn't begin to cover it. He is a bit cranky - ha! But, so am I by this point.

Bottom line, he, me, we, are all doing better. BUT the reason for this particular post is to, as I said, make a shameless plea for help. Kam is officially a paraplegic. Actually, I think they diagnose him as a quad, because he has a really weak left arm, and they don't call people tri-plegic. But, I don't have a way to transport him. I drive a Pacifica. It's kind of a station wagon. Not a van, not a sedan. In order to take Kameron to his many medical appointments, I have to lift him up into the bucket passenger seat, and then lift his wheelchair (which weighs 27 kilos - 59 pounds) into the back of the car.

Kam now weighs 110 pounds.

I am a strong woman, thank God. Really, I mean that. But, I am not getting any younger. And the years of caregiving are taking their toll. My back is prone to serious spasms, and frankly, I avoid taking Kameron out at all costs. Obviously, I make it to the necessary appointments; I have to. He has to see the PTs and the OTs and the doctors.

But, I have for years wanted to be able to take him out on regular family type things. To go to the park. To take him to the movies (although behavior can be a bit challenging...), for crying out loud, I'd like to just throw him in the car and go to the grocery store.

He needs a wheelchair van. Seriously.

I have looked into this for a long time; they aren't cheap. A new conversion van is in the 35k range. Funny thing is, I looked at a used Caravan, a 2000 Caravan, and the price on it was $20k. Even used, they are extremely pricey. And I just don't have the ability to finance one. There are some on Craigslist that are from the 90's that go for around $6,000, but I can't swing that right now, either. And he is getting bigger. We just got him fit for a larger wheelchair.

SOOOOO, I am asking for help. I added a "donate" button at the top of the blog. If any of you feel like you could or would be able to help in this, I would be beyond grateful.

Kam's had a some challenging times, and yet, he's a really good boy. He has a long road ahead, and frankly, as his sole caregiver, so do I.

Anything you can do would be so so so appreciated.

Thanks everyone. Oh, by the way, this is how his hips look now:

Aren't they BEAUTIFUL??

Unconditional Love

The kids and I got to church yesterday. It's the first time in more than eight months, and I was glad to be there. For a lot of reasons, really. First of all, it was terrific to actually get all three kids together and go somewhere as a family - somewhere that wasn't a medical appointment.

I planned ahead.

Kobi would go down to the children's program (it's downstairs at this church we go to); Klaryssia would stay with Kameron and me upstairs in "regular" church. For this to happen, both Klaryssia and Kam would have to have distractions. Quiet ones, preferably.

Klaryssia packed her dog-eared Bible (she likes to look up "versions" and copy them down for fun), her MP3 player from Christmas (the ear bud cord is already sporting a few patches of purple duct tape - don't know HOW she breaks the cord, must chew on it), some gum, a few pens and plenty of paper.

For Kameron, I crammed his backpack full of stuff: his portable dvd player (got that for hospital trips, works like a charm, just stick in Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and we're good to go); his Leapster (he likes to do math games), a bag full of granola bars and fruit snacks (when all else fails, feed him), a notebook (to write out math problems when the Leapster joy fades), several markers, and a hardback copy of Eclipse (he likes to look at the page numbers and chapter headings).

Off we went.

We got everyone loaded almost on time (about 15 minutes behind schedule, which is practically the same as on time). Headed over. Unloaded, wheeled into church. A nice usher offered to take Kobi down to the kid's area. We settled into the almost back row, experience tells me to be close to exits in case someone's about to lose it. And, hey. It worked! Kam stayed fairly happy - I had enough of the right things to keep him entertained and almost quiet. Klaryssia LOVED the singing - she sang as soon as the words popped up on the screen, which was a tad ahead of the actual music, but hey, she was having a blast. She smiled and swayed to the music the whole time.

I was just so grateful to be there. Me and God are kind of in this quiet place in our relationship. Well, I am. I'm pretty sure He's just hanging up there, waiting on me. I spent twenty-eight years as a non-believer in Him. Long, sad, lonely years, angry at everyone and full of blame and self-pity.

Then, I met this crazy lady who was nice to me. She offered me a ride with my groceries, and later invited my then very tiny family (just Kristopher and me) over for dinner. Blew me away with this kindness. As I said, I was very sad and lonely. She talked about her church and about how God had changed her life. By the end of the night, I was asking to go.

This church, tucked into one of the fringe neighborhoods around the edges of Seattle, was small. Maybe a hundred people on a good Sunday. But they were so sweet to me, so genuinely welcoming and interested in me and in my little bi-racial toddler boy. They weren't shocked that I, a tall redheaded white lady was there with him (remember, this was twenty years ago, single moms and mixed-race kids were rarer then). They didn't press for info about his dad, or our life-style (which I expected, after all, aren't those "Christians" so judgmental?). They just welcomed us and really accepted us. That got me interested in this God they loved.

One thing led to another, I started reading - for the first time, really - the Bible, and before I knew it, I was His. I want to be clear: it wasn't the people that "talked me into" making such a radical decision. It was His Word and the response I felt in my soul, deep down where nothing was living - it spoke to me in ways I can't describe. So, I told Him, "Let's go for it!" And my life changed. Not lonely - I had Him; not sad - ditto. Plus I had this whacky little group of old ladies, middle-aged folks, and odd-balls at this church. They loved us. Unconditionally.

Then I moved to Colorado Springs to Do Big Things for God. What followed were fifteen of the best and hardest years of my life. Way too much to cram in here - there are probably older posts that cover some of it - but, my faith took some really big hits. I think I started loving Him conditionally. Based on what He could do for me but didn't, for what ever reason. I had a set of expectations in mind when I started all this work for him, and He let me down. Which sounds pretty ridiculous, because if the work was for Him, and He had a plan, then how could He let me down?

But things didn't go like I'd hoped. And it hurt me bad.

So, back to why church was so great yesterday. No one really sought us out, or especially welcomed us. No one went out of their way to say, "hi". And that was completely fine. I wasn't there for the people, necessarily. I was there to represent. My loyalty is to Him. He's done great and amazing things in my life, and even if they aren't all turning out how I'd hoped, planned, and expected, they are amazing nonetheless. And I will stay faithful.

Somewhere in the message, the Pastor talked about having unconditional faith in God; loving Him in all circumstances, like Paul did. Paul, who didn't have an easy time of things, yet never stopped loving and never stopped believing. My job is to stay faithful whatever happens, no accusations, no finger-pointing, no fist-shaking. My job is to love Him unconditionally, like He loves me. When I am faithless, He is faithful.

I need those reminders. And I think that's what church is for, really.

Thanks for reading, much love -

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.^[1]

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.^[1]

The Road Taken

I've been a single parent to special needs children for over fifteen years. This has been by my choice - I fostered my kiddos before I adopted them, and I had many other special children in my care for quite a few years. So I went into this "specialized" gig with both eyes wide open.

Now, I'm not saying it's an easy gig. Or, that I was 100% prepared for the intense level of parenting it is. But, I've really been noticing the difference choosing makes.

Let me explain.

I have a friend whose boys were born autistic. Her marriage broke up when the boys were in elementary school, and she's raised them on her own ever since. Now, they are in their late teens, and she's still alone, loving her boys, taking care of them, and trying to make their lives as happy and "well-adjusted" as square pegs can in this round-hole world.

They do movies, and sometimes the Art Museum. Disney on Ice is a big hit for them, too. They make it every year. They're a bit conspicuous at Disney, though. Her "boys" are both well over six feet and not small. But, they squeeze into the little seats at the Arena and wear their mouse ears with pride as they sing along with the Princesses. They love to go to the zoo, and the State Fair each summer.

I admire how much they do, how active they are despite some significant behavioral challenges.

But, one night over a glass of wine, as I was rambling on and on about how gorgeous my new granddaughter was, and how sad I was that my son and his little family lived so far away, I happened to notice her face. And it hit me like a forehead slap: she would never have grandchildren.

My heart just slipped down from my chest into my stomach, and I felt tears behind my eyes. Oh my word. Here I was going on about missing my son and his family, and here she was - mourning what will never happen. Wow.

I apologized. Sometimes I'm pretty slow.

The list of "nevers" for our kids can be long. Kameron may be eleven, but believe it or not, things like his inability to walk, run, play "real" basketball, swim, rollerskate, ride a scooter--these loses are just now starting to dawn on me. It's like all these years have been spent busily keeping him alive and striving for immediate goals. Things like keeping food down, breathing, and talking - these were his developmental milestones. At least as far as I was concerned.

Lately, though, I'm grieving those losses for him, and for me. All the things traditional parents of special kids have to work through over the years, as their baby grows up and they find something else he or she should be doing, but can't, I'm just now figuring out. Just now seeing the very wide chasm between Kameron and his peers in 5th grade. And it sucks.

But underlying that suckiness is the very strong awareness that if it's this hard for me, this late in the game, how much harder would it have been to feel him grow in my uterus, kicking and swimming around in there, anticipating his arrival, choosing names, talking to him as he grew, having baby showers, fixing up his room...and then have all that crash around me when everything goes completely wrong.

And then it keeps on going wrong, despite your best efforts for your child. That list begins to form.

This is not to say that parenting a special needs child is a thankless, hopeless task. It simply isn't. And most of us will tell anyone that. We celebrate all the tiny victories - and I think that makes us grateful people.

But, it is a grieving thing, too. Our entire belief system has to adjust and change. Dreams for the future of our child need to be adjusted and reevaluated. Our whole world is turned upside down and inside out, and it takes time - maybe a lifetime - to get used to it. Because the reality is that the upside down, inside out world is our new home.

Whether we chose it, or it chose us. Better head on down to Target and get some stuff to make it cozy.

Love -

Big Dreams

I have big dreams for my little family. My older group - Kris, Kelsey, Elesha, and Kaleb - are all out of the house and pretty well on their ways. But for the three still at home - Klaryssia, Kameron, and Kobi - I have dreams.

The older kids all had pretty "typical" kid lives. Kris and Kelsey were involved in sports. Kris (Rain) played basketball and football through high school, both in school and on Colorado's version of AAU. He had a football and basketball scholarship for college. Kelsey did club gymnastics for many years, then switched to competitive and school cheering through her Senior year.

They went to dances, roller skated, and hung out with friends. We traveled all over Colorado, Nevada, and California for various tournaments and competitions - for both of them. In short, despite the decidely non-traditional family I built around them (the "original Rainwaters), I managed to give them a pretty well-rounded, fun upbringing. And they are really great young adults. I'm beyond proud of them.

But, these younger three haven't had those opportunities.

Most of their lives have been wrapped around Kameron and his intense medical needs. Months and months of their childhoods have been spent in waiting for Kam and me to go into the hospital; get out of the hospital; heal up from the last hospital visit; get ready for the next hospital visit.

Therapies, getting school arranged, getting medications (you'd be surprised how much time the whole prescription process can eat up); then just the regular stuff of regular life: laundry, grocery shopping, meal preparation and eating, keeping up on housework, homework (for Kobi), blah blah blah!

They haven't had too many opportunities for things like going to the Y to swim. Just heading down to the mall to walk around, or going for a family drive on a Sunday after church and maybe stopping off for fish and chips...or for after-school activities like the school carnival, or neighborhood movie night.

I'd like to enroll Kobi in martial arts classes, or drama. Definitely drama. Klaryssia could go to the Special programs they have for Special young adults at our local parks and rec department.

They are getting older, and I feel like the window I have for helping create childhood memories and experiences is slipping away for them. We spend most of our non-school/non-medical appointment time at home. Mostly because it's just so darned hard to get out. Things like helping Kam on and off a toilet take time - and when you are out, using a public restroom isn't the easiest - but it is possible.

But the biggest barrier is really the transportation. To be able to just lower a ramp, wheel him into a van, and strap everyone up and go? That sounds like a dream to me.

I can't wait. Thanks to everyone helping make this happen - thanks for caring,

Kathy, Kam, Kobi, and Klaryssia

The Spring Has Gone Out of My Bottom

I used to think of myself as Tigger. You know, T-I-double Gah Ur? Bouncy, bouncy, something, something, fun fun fun fun fun?

But, lately, the spring has gone out of my bottom.

Maybe it's the getting older thing. Maybe it's the not getting spiritually fed thing. Maybe it's the way too much on my plate thing. But the Tigger-ness I used to have has definitely left the building.

I'm more of an Eeyore, lately. "It'll never work...what's the use? Why am I even trying?" What am I referring to? Fill in the blank - could be school ("What's the use? What good will a degree do me at my age?"). Could be this new notion to raise money for a van for Kameron ("It'll never work. People have too many other important things going on. It's a bad economy..."). Could be the work involved in Kobi's education ("Long division - again??"). Could be the constant work toward Kam's rehabbing, stretching him, trying to get him to bear weight, working with the school, and him: "Why do my hips still hurt?" - no answers. After all these months, I've run dry.

And so it goes. I used to be a glass half-full person, full of hope. And that's what keeps us going, isn't it? The Bible says that: "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life." Proverbs 13:12 NIV

Maybe the problem isn't in the hopes deferred, or in the amount on my plate, or teachers, my own bad attitude, or anyone else. Maybe I'm looking in the wrong places to have the "longing fulfilled." Maybe I'm expecting my longings to be fulfilled by things, by school, by an easier road, or by people. But God wants me to be fulfilled by Him.

Maybe, my Answer is patiently waiting for me to get heartsick from all this deferred "hope" and return to the well of life...

Weather

My Meteorology teacher asked us to share our most memorable weather event. This is the story I told:

I've been around a few years, so I've experienced a lot of weather. I've also moved several times - from Northern California, to Seattle, to Colorado Springs, and back to Seattle.

Of course, the weather is much different in each of those places, but I must say, Colorado Springs had some serious weather. It could go from a summer snow storm (a late snow in June, one year), to like 90 the next day. The snow would literally steam off the roads under a clear, sunny sky. Thunderstorms, tornadoes, crazy! Actually, it was pretty awesome. From the inside of a safe, dry, warm, place.

But, my most memorable weather event was a snow storm we had in 2002. My family and I lived in a big ranch house out in the country on 12 acres just north of the Springs. Our elevation out there was about 7,300 feet, so our climate was a little different than our neighbors just 5 miles south.
This storm hit hard - temps dropped to around 15 degrees during the day, white-out snow, and it was a wet snow, so everything it landed on froze. Including our power lines.

Uncharacteristically, this storm lasted for a few days, and on the second day, we lost power. Now, this wouldn't be a big deal, we had 2 fireplaces and food, and could cook on top of the Franklin Stove; but I had a foster child, Kenny (now Kameron, my son) who was on a ventilator.

We had two car batteries

acting as a back up to keep him breathing, but they were only good for around 12 hours. At 8 hours w/no power, I started to worry. The storm showed no sign of letting up, and the clock was ticking.

Thankfully, we had a Hello Kitty plug-in phone (Kelsey's) that worked, so I called our local fire department. They offered to bring a generator out to the house, but when they attempted to get it to us, they weren't able to get up our driveway. Our 1/2 mile long dirt road was completely blocked by at least four feet of snow, which was still falling, blowing, and drifting.

I told them I'd walk out to get it. Right. Out I waded into the deepest snow I'd ever seen, sinking up to my hips, eventually crawling on top of it, to try to reach the firemen out there. I lost all sense of direction, and after about thirty minutes, realized I would never make it. I decided to turn back to the house.

I couldn't figure out where it was.

The snow was falling fast and blowing sideways, and I couldn't even see a nearby tree for a landmark. For the first time, I genuinely panicked, and understood how people could get trapped by snowstorms just feet away from their homes and die.

So, I'm sitting there, trying not to freak out, desperately praying and asking for some kind of break in the storm so I could head back to the house, when all of a sudden, I see a dark shape slowly moving through the snow in front of me. It was my 15 year old son, coming out to help.

I've never been so glad to see anyone. We were both covered in frozen snow and freezing - for real - but together, we got back to the house.

After I called the fire department, and let them know we couldn't get out to the street, they contacted the county Search and Rescue team, who sent out a snow cat to pick up my little Kameron and his nurse. They took them out and got him to a hospital, where he stayed, safe and snug, until the storm cleared, our power was restored, and we were unburied enough to go retrieve him.

That was probably my most memorable weather event. I must say I'm glad to be back in rainy, "boring", Seattle. The weather here is very well-behaved. Usually. Of course, there was that time...

Tigers - RAWR!!

During Kam's convalescence, we shared some quality time. Like six weeks straight of it. Not a bad thing; in fact, aside from the crazy pain management stuff at the front and back ends of it - gratefully now much less - I really enjoyed it.

Kameron is a funny guy. And he's resilient beyond belief. I think I could safely say that he's my hero. He's been through an amazing array of hardship and challenges, but, for the most part, he's pretty cheerful.

One of the things he did during his stay at home, was make up a pet name for me. Literally, a pet name. Somehow, I became his "Tiger". I think it's my hair. I have a lot of it, and it's reddish blonde, and when he was calling me a tiger, he was usually petting my head. He'd also watched the same episode of GoDiegoGo about nine hundred times, and Diego, if you don't know, is big on animals.

So, one time when he called me his Tiger, I responded, "RAWR!". This cracked him up.

"Momma, you're my Tiger"

"RAWR!"

"Momma, are you my Tiger?"

"RAWR!"

"Mom, your'e a tiger..."

Finally, to break this cycle, I said, "And you're my tiger cub!" Kam really loved this. Now, we are officially the Tiger branch of the Rainwater family.

This led me to further exploration. What are tigers like? A quick Wiki search uncovered some of the following factoids:

Tigers, unlike all other species of cat, except Jaguars, love water. They swim. Cool, right?

"Among the big cats, only the tiger and jaguar are strong swimmers; tigers are often found bathing in ponds, lakes, and rivers. Unlike other cats, which tend to avoid water, tigers actively seek it out. During the extreme heat of the day, they often cool off in pools. Tigers are excellent swimmers, able to swim up to 4 miles and carry dead prey across lakes."

SO cool. Especially the carrying dead prey across lakes part.

Tigers also prey on man more than any other big cat:

"Although humans are not regular prey for tigers, they have killed more people than any other cat, particularly in areas where population growth, logging, and farming have put pressure on tiger habitats. Most man-eating tigers are old and missing teeth, acquiring a taste for humans because of their inability to capture preferred prey."

Wait a sec. Old and missing teeth?

Ahh... this is better, in Asia, the Tiger is the King of the Beasts. Well, Queen, in our case.

The tiger replaces the lion as King of the Beasts in cultures of eastern Asia,^[131] representing royalty, fearlessness and wrath.^[132] Its forehead has a marking which resembles the Chinese character 王, which means "king"; consequently, many cartoon depictions of tigers in China and Korea are drawn with 王 on their forehead

Fearlessness, wrath, royalty...now THAT's what I'm talking about.

The Tigress raises her cubs alone - check; they are usually nocturnal - yep, that's called "me time"; and while they can have bursts of speed, but don't have much stamina...well, it does seem that Kam has aptly named me.

Little genius. Rawr.

Finishing

One of the many somethings that kept me from blogging in 2010 was that I went back to college. Yes, that's correct. This north of forty (I will NOT say how much) single mother of seven, now grandma, went back to college. Some of the biggest regrets in my life revolve around not finishing things.

In high school, way back in the "enlightened" days of the late seventies/early eighties, I was a little too busy finding ways to avoid life to care much about school. I would take days off and head to the beach - such as they are in Northern California - to party, rather than go to classes.

Somehow, I didn't flunk out, but I did get out early, in my Junior year. Not on credits, I took and passed the California Proficiency Exam. Like a GED. There was even a quote in a local paper from me about the test. I think we were the first group, or something. My quote, in my extreme seventeen-year-oldness, was something like, "Well, if you're mature enough, you should be able to get on with life." Ha! Mature. Right. There's nothing so funny as looking back on your younger self and seeing how arrogant and really stupid you were.

Things I miss the most about the high school experience include "unimportant" things like Senior Prom and the Graduation ceremony. At the time, I was a self-proclaimed outcast, and had separated myself from the main herd. I almost convinced myself those things were stupid and boring and unnecessary. There were lots of reasons, and I understand much better now why that was. But, that's not what we're talking about today.

In the mid-nineties, living in Seattle with Kris and Kelsey, ages five and three, and a new(ish) Christian, I felt a call (an almost-irresistible urge followed up by unexplainable confirming acts) to go, of all places, to Colorado Springs to attend Nazarene Bible College. At the time, I was working in the best job of my life. I was the Registered Sales Assistant to a father/son team of high-producing stockbrokers. How the heck I ended up with that amazing job being an "almost" high school graduate with no formal degree is info for another day.

But, I felt this call, and I saw the path, and I went for it. This is not one of the "unfinished things" I regret. In fact, out of all the decisions I've made in my life, this remains one of the ones that feel the most certain. I was supposed to do this and go there.

Years pass, choices are made, and I end up in a ranch house north of Colorado Springs stuffed to the 20-foot cedar-paneled ceilings with kids. Kids of all ages, shapes, sizes, and abilities. Me, who was never going to be a mom. More ha!

But, I didn't finish Bible College. I had three years into a double-major: music and Biblical Studies. I didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I was where I was supposed to be. At the time. When I left, it was to work with the children, and that was another thing I am certain was the right move. But, I always said that if I were to ever get a degree... and strongly encouraged all my children to finish high school and go to college.

Watching my older two do just that has been a joy. And, from this vantage point, the wisdom of all those years of school is perfectly clear - and missing it, one of those regrets we seem to accumulate as we age.

So, here I am. Finishing. My classes are online, and I should have the credits to transfer to the University of Washington in the Fall of 2011. If they'll have me. Grades are good, I'm loving learning, and over-achieving (according to Kelsey, who got straight A's last semester, I try too hard). The goal is a BA in English.

I refuse to think about how silly this all is. When thoughts of what are you DOING?? seep into my brain like a toxic fog, I just turn up the music on my i-Pod. I will finish this. Whatever the outcome is, I will detach from it, and trust that the reasons will someday be evident. If nothing else, I will enjoy the ride. And I WILL finish this.

Baby Tessa is here!!

Another lengthy silence - sorry everyone, it was a horribly busy year. Not bad, just busy.

But, the terrific news is that Rain & Kami's

beautiful baby girl, Tessa Jean, was born on her due date, December 11th, 2010. She weighed 8'8oz. and was 21" long. Wonderfully healthy, and so alert... Here's an early pic:

This was in the hospital when she was about 4 hours old - that's Rain's hand. Isn't she amazing???

I got to fly down to Arizona to meet her (and see Rain & Kami, of course) a few days after she was born. My wonderful, sweet, kind, tremendous (is that enough superlatives? Maybe a few more...), thoughtful, loving, responsible, and incredibly competent daughter Kelsey took over the homefront so I could leave. That's saying a lot, since Kameron is still rehabbing from his hip surgery (I may post about that later), and if you've read any of my previous posts, you know Kobi and Klaryssia can be a bit...um...draining. Not that I don't love them, of course!

Any way, I got to go to meet this, my first little Rainwater Granddaughter. And she is so precious. It was very hard leaving her there. I'm not super-experienced with extended family - my family is pretty much the group God's given me, my Dad and Mom live in other states, uncles and aunts are distant, and not super-communicative, no cousins to speak of, etc. So, having my crew around me is important. Having Kami, Kris, and now the baby in Arizona is just a major adjustment.

I'm sure I'll manage, but it's sad.

Here are some more pics for you to see!!

I know, it's disgusting how beautiful they are... ;-)

Breaking the Silence

Hi again - yes, I am back...no promises about tomorrow, though!

I'm in school, working away at my BA in English. I think both my older kids will graduate before me, I am ALMOST a junior. But, I'm totally fine with that. The following is an exercise I did for my Creative Writing class. I have Kris's permission to share.

Back in the late ‘80s, I lived in the basement half of a house split into two apartments with my son, Kristopher. He was a baby then, and we were separated from his dad, my husband, for a bunch of reasons not important to this story. The apartment was the best I could afford. It was on Henderson Avenue South in Seattle, just off Rainier Avenue, one block east of Chubby and Tubby, home of the famous $5.98 Christmas tree. The house was built around World War II, and the sunshine yellow paint job appeared to be at least that old. It had moss-tinged white trim and a sloping gray roof that was missing shingles. The yellow was a selling point for me.

A scraggly string of dusty gardenia bushes limped along the west side of the house where our kitchen window and front door looked out onto a dirt alley which was all that separated us from the open carport space under the Asian market that faced Rainier. I remember feeding my son in his high chair and looking out at dope fiends shooting each other up under the shelter of that carport, and finding abandoned, bent needles lying in our front yard.

The apartment itself was in decent shape. At least the front door closed and locked, and the air gap under it wasn’t too bad. One towel shoved under it did the trick, except on the coldest nights. The windows facing south looked out on a lumpy, overgrown, tired yard that had one tree in it. I think it was an apple, but no fruit ever grew on it - at least not during our time living there. The yard was the other selling point for me. For some reason, I thought my infant son needed a yard, way before he could even walk.

The number seven Metro bus stopped right on the corner of Henderson and Rainier, which was convenient, because I worked downtown, and Kris’s daycare was there, too. I remember the two of us, all bundled up against the cold and dark of the Northwest mornings, baby gear packed into a diaper bag, work shoes jammed into a book bag, both hanging on the handle of the stroller by plastic baby Boomerang Links in cheerful primary colors. My son, tucked in securely under a layer of blankets and wearing a puffy jacket, would ride crammed up against the crossbar of the stroller and would kick his heels in joy against the foot rests as we bumped up the dirt alley – me praying we’d miss early shift of die-hard junkies - to catch the 5:00 am bus, Mondays through Fridays.

I would drop him off at his daycare at the First United Methodist Church on the corner of Marion and 5th Avenue, then walk the five blocks north and two blocks east to my office at the old One Union Square Building, where my work day at the brokerage firm began at 6:30am. At lunch time, I’d reverse the route to go play with him and feed him, then power walk back to the office. I never needed a gym membership, back then.

One time I remember best was his first birthday. He was born two days after New Year’s, and it fell on the first work day back from the Holiday weekend, this particular year. It was traditional to bring a birthday cake into the daycare center to share with the group. But we had no money for a bakery cake. Actually, we had no money for a cake mix. I decided to bake a cake from scratch. No, two cakes: one for home and one for the daycare.

I began with a search for my one and only cookbook, the Red Betty Crocker one. There weren’t too many places to search in that small apartment, and I finally found it in an unpacked box in the storage space under my bed. My son joined the search, crawling along on the floor behind me, and climbing up on my back and hitting me in the head with a toy truck while I rummaged through the box. After I found it, I around on my stomach and opened the book right there, on the musty smelling carpet in the middle of the bedroom floor, Kristopher banging away next to me. “What’s it going to take, little man? Do we have the stuff?” On to the kitchen we went to find out.

“Eggs, flour, butter (well, Crisco should be fine), vanilla (imitation), baking powder, salt, sugar, and milk. Check. We’re on baby! Oops, what about pans?” More rummaging around turned up some old aluminum lasagna pans. “This will work,” I told him. More banging of the truck, accompanied by giggles and drool bubbles. “I’m going to mix both in one bowl, to save time.” An hour later, after much measuring and mixing – by hand, no mixer back then – the first lopsided pan went into the oven. While we waited, we played, Kris blowing bubbles and laughing while I made car sounds, stopping every so often for a tickle break.

Outside, across the alley, a group of junkies huddled together against the January cold and shared needles.

In our little house, we shared warm Bisquick-tasting birthday cake, and celebrated our first year together.

We're having a baby. Or, "Grandmom's Night Out"?

So, the BIG news is, I am going to be a Grandmother. That is the strangest sentence I've ever written. I don't even feel like a bona-fide mom sometimes. I still have three kids at home, for cryin' out loud!!

But, indeed, it is a factoid. Or a factoid to be.

This baby is coming from Kami and Kris, of course (or thankfully!). You may remember they got married last July...yes, it's soon for a baby, but they are excited and I know they will make great parents. I've seen them both with children. Especially mine. Believe me, if someone can handle the oddness of my "special" kids with grace and fun, they will make a tremendous parent.

And these two do.

Kris has always had an accepting and loving heart towards all the kids we've had through our crazy home over the years. I started fostering when he was eight. He grew up with run away teen-aged girls (I don't think one of them stayed put), raging boys with Muscular Dystrophy (he used to ram people with his electric wheelchair), and a variety of children needing diapers, assistive devices, feeding tubes, and more.

When Kameron (then Kenny) came into our house at the age of one, on a ventilator and trached, it was fifteen year old Kris who treked up to Denver Children's Hospital with me to learn how to disassemble and reassemble the ventilator. They required this before discharging Kenny to us, even though we had 24 hour nurses lined up. Kris learned, along with me, how to suction Kenny's trach so he wouldn't choke to death on his own mucus (sorry, it's a little graphic); and the amazing thing is, Kris had no problem with this - at least he never once complained or balked.

Once we got Kenny back to our house for good, a process that took about a month, I remember Kris standing over the huge red medical crib looking down on him through all the breathing tubes. Kenny was sucking on his fingers and looking around the room - very calm and quiet, and kicking his feet. Kris said, "You know, how do people complain about things? Look at him . . . if anyone ever had a reason to complain and be mad, it's him. And he's so happy. . ."

Pretty wise for fifteen. Pretty wise for any age.

As for Kami, his beautiful bride, she lived with us before they got married. Kris was in Oregon, playing basketball and taking a few classes, and Kami was going through Gene Juarez training school (to get licensed as a stylist), so she lived in our home - right there she gets bravery points. I mean, living with your future mother-in-law and her kids?? Especially my special kids.

She was terrific. Sweet, funny, completely real, and she had no problem with my munchkins. Kami is the real deal.

If she can handle all of us - she can handle anything.

I'm sure they wanted a little more alone time as a couple - it's pretty soon - but babies are a visual, breathing token of your love. How awesome is that? A little person made from each of you - wow.

To both of you: I am so proud to be your mom and mom-in-law. For the record, I think you two will be wonderful, caring, fun parents. And I am sure that you will have the time of your lives raising your kids...

Remember, you are never alone. God has gotten all of us this far, and He won't leave you now.

Oh, and EVERYONE is excited to be aunts and uncles. Let us know how we can help.

We love!

Children Should Be Heard . . .

I was pondering childhood this morning. Just kind of wandering down memory lane (which is a little like finding your way through the scary woods in the Wizard of Oz). I thought about how my parents parented me, and about the adults in my life in general, the attitude their generation had toward children.

One of the big sayings then was, "children should be seen and not heard." Like, ever?

You mean when my big brother is "playing" with me, say, throwing darts at me, you want me to just stay meek and well-mannered? Or, say kids at school are calling me really nasty names, spitting at me, putting gum on my seat - then? Should I be "seen and not heard" then, too?

I know I'm not the only casualty of this "method" of parenting. In fact, I know that both my parents thought that was the appropriate way to raise children. Isn't that how their mother and father raised them? I'm not saying they weren't loving. And, I think my generation has swung WAY the other way in compensating. We tend to treat our children like little kings and queens, and have a real problem with young adults that have no boundaries, no discipline, and no respect for anyone. There's a difference between respecting a child and giving him or her everything they want. That's a whole 'nother discussion.

I just think that we need to treat our children - all of them - as people. To respect their individuality, try to help them discover who they were made to be - do they love art? Do they love words, music, football? All of the above?

Again, I don't mean let's haul them all over creation in clubs and all sorts of after-school junk. There's a balance here. And really, while it's important to help them uncover their talents, it's even more important to give them that sense of belonging here. To give them that sense of mattering that all of us need so desperately.

That's something anyone can give a child, by the way. That favorite teacher you remember? What is it that makes him or her so memorable? I'll tell you why I still remember Mrs. Israel, my third grade teacher (and I will NOT tell you how long ago that was). She paid attention to me. When she talked to me, it was to me, not to one of her students. She wasn't especially "nice" or "sweet", in fact, she was kind of abrupt and direct, but she so obviously thought of us little third graders as small people. As individuals with opinions and dreams and lives of our own. And we mattered to her. It was so unusual that she stands out sharply in the sea of adults that surrounded my childhood.

I've had little kids who've met me one time (like on a field trip) come up to me the following year, remember my name, and say hi. One little girl who rode my son's bus last year actually wrote me a little note:

Hey folks, all I did was say good morning to her at the bus every day and I get this awesome note! Whose little life can you impact today? It doesn't take much...

Trace Adkins performs "You're Gonna Miss This" at the Grand Ole Opry - Part ONE see below!

You're Gonna Miss This-Part Two

Back in 2007-2008, Country singer, Trace Adkins came out with a song (yes I listen to country, settle down) called, You're Gonna Miss This. The song coincided with a bunch of big changes in my/our lives: Kelsey was graduating, Kris was going down to Oregon to finish school, and was engaged. . . and I was still trying to recover from the rapid moves/losses/craziness of the years between October, 2005 (when Kameron was diagnosed) to then.

Now I find myself trying to reconcile all that stuff, all those years, and despite the extreme toughness of them, I find that I do, in fact, miss that.

I miss the Big House on Vollmer Road; the crazy Colorado weather (I mean, blizzards in October? Ice storms in July?); the space we had - antelopes and falcons and coyotes - o my! I miss the excitement of the kids and the challenge of taking care of all of them (at one point, I think we had three adults and at least twelve kids); I miss middle-school football with Kris; driving all over the state to watch Kelsey at a gymnastics meet; I miss my dog, Cody (best yellow lab EVER); I miss the quiet Colorado morning when the sun was just coming up and the huge house was still and everything seemed possible. . . I miss it.

It's funny how life can seem so crazy and hard while you're living it, but when you look back, they were some great times. Maybe the goal is to keep remembering that each day. Today is that day - the one you're gonna miss. Peace, peeps.

Here's What You've Been Missing:

I know, I know, another long silence. Like since Thanksgiving. Well, I've been busy, okay?? All the hustle and bustle around the Rainwater manse. . .things are happening! I don't have always have time to sit down in front of my computer, you know.

Take tonight for instance:

I'm sitting here watching Kameron watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. It's the only show he'll ever watch. And boy, will he watch it. He will watch it on the couch; he will watch it on the floor; he will watch it on the computer; he will watch it on the big screen; he will watch it on a house, he will watch it on a mouse, he will watch it here or there... he will watch it anywhere (apologies to Dr. Seuss).

If you aren't familiar, MMC is a show geared toward pre-schoolers. It's got fun and annoyingly perky music, all Mickey's pals (even Pete, the "villain"), some puzzles the kids help Mickey solve, and lots of other cleverly disguised learning opportunities.

Kam, at age ten, is a bit older than the demographic. But, since he's lost a few years - like five or six - and since he wasn't ever supposed to talk, read, sit up, eat on his own . . . live. . . I think his love of Mickey is just fine.

He talks back to the screen. In fact, he just said, "Oh Toodles" along with the gang.

He tells Mickey which mystery Mouseka-tool to use ("the feather") to tickle the baby elephant, and generally stays absorbed the entire 24 minutes.

He decides what character we all are. Kam is, of course, Mickey. I am Minnie some days, Daisy on others, and refuse to be Clarabell the Cow. She has the most annoying voice. Kobi is Donald (Kobi WISHES he was Donald. He wants to quack); Kelsey is whatever female I'm not - usually Daisy - and Klaryssia is Clarabell by default. Then comes Kris as Goofy (I think its the height); and finally our little yappy dog is Pluto.

Oh, we've just decided that the giraffe is short enough to fit into the clubhouse. Daisy is naming him Longfellow...

I think I need to get out more.

It could be worse. He could love that purple dinosaur -- who shall remain unnamed.

Is it Just Me?

My kids are mega-spoiled. They are more demanding than rock stars who want their water a specific temperature and all the green M&Ms picked out of the bowls before they arrive.

"I need the blue bowl. Did you give me the blue bowl?"

"What color is my cup?"

"We are out of ice cream. When are you going to the store, Mom?"

"I want Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Go to the store, Mom."

"No toilet paper."


"Did you record Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?"
"Today is my bath day. I want to take it with Kobi.
I want to be in the frontnoIwanttobeinthefrontnoit'smyturnnoit'smyturnnoit'smine. ItsMINEEEE"


So when I was cruising through some old pics I have stored on Shutterfly.com from ages ago, like eight years or so, I was pleased to find that they stirred up some mommy-appropriate emotions. Tell me what you think...keep 'em?

Why Foster? Here's Why...

I dare you not to cry. . . I DARE you!

A letter to all my parents:

I was going to start by saying I’m sorry that I waited so long to write this letter to say thank you. The delay means that some of you will have left this earth before I got to say these words to you - I hope I have the opportunity to say them to you in Another Place. But I realize that my thanks would have been incomplete if I had voiced them before. I would probably still have been angry at some of you and perhaps not have recognized the sacrifices you had made. I’m sure I still don’t fully comprehend all that you have done for me, but I probably never will know in full while on this earth, so well, now’s the time to take the time.

To my birth parents:

Seems strange to write to people I don’t even know, even further to be thankful and grateful to someone I've never seen and someone I cannot remember. Thank you for choosing to give me life. Oh I know, my conception probably wasn’t a conscious choice on your part, but allowing me to continue to live, giving me birth was most definitely a choice you made. You may try to say that in “those days” you didn’t have a choice, but you and I both know better than that. I admire you so much for making that choice, for choosing the harder path. I don’t know what it cost you to make that choice, but know that I know how much courage that took. I wish I could have known you and gleaned some of that bravery from you, so that I could have been strong enough to make that right choice myself.

To my foster parents:

I don’t know what you were thinking when you got me at 18 months of age. Since my birth mom was still alive I’m sure you just thought you’d have me for a few days. But things didn’t work out that way, did they? That short-term commitment you were willing to make turned into something much longer. And year after year while I remained in your home, you got attached. I gave nicknames to your birth children that they still have to this day, you placed my picture in your hallway; somehow it felt like I had become yours.

And yet, when my birth mom died when I was four, all of a sudden everything you had done for me didn’t matter - you had poured yourself into me and yet you didn’t have a voice, a say in my future. Because you were a foster parent, you had to stand back and allow biological family members to step in and take me away from you.

I heard that before me you had fostered over 30 kids and after I left you just didn’t have the heart to do it anymore. I didn’t understand that before, but now I know why - it was because you had given me your heart, I had taken it with me. I have it now, it’s taken me awhile to give it a voice, but I know I have your heart. For you see, I long to be a foster parent as well, to do as you did. To love a child, who through no fault of their own, has no one and feels as if there is no one who cares and to say to them, “you are someone. For as long as you’re with me - a few hours, for a few days, weeks or even years, you matter, you belong, you are not abandoned and unloved, you are precious, you are priceless, you are valuable simply because you’re you”.

Thank you for showing me that, for giving me that. I don’t know what it cost you to do that, but know that words cannot express my gratefulness.

To my adoptive parents:

Seems strange to call you that, for to me you have always been just “my parents”. I never knew any differently - which speaks volumes about just what kind of parents you are. There was never any question that I was yours. I know there was a day you told me that I wasn’t biologically yours, but funny how I don’t remember it. Something that huge should have impacted my life dramatically - but it didn’t - because YOU had already impacted my life dramatically. By making me your own, by never allowing your boys to call me “cousin” but making them call me “sister”. I wonder, did you have that conversation with them? Did you ever ask them if they wanted a little sister? Did you ever ask yourself if you really wanted to raise a fifth child, so much younger than the ones you were already raising?

But even as I ask that, I know the answer - you didn’t ask those questions - you knew that if you didn’t step in I would become a ward of the state. And you were my family and you were not going to allow that to happen - no matter what the cost to you. You didn’t ask questions, you took action, you didn’t complain about the unfairness of it all, you worked toward a solution. Thank you for that, thank for you never making me feel like I was a problem, an inconvenience, a burden to bear. Thank you for loving me as your own while still allowing me to freely learn about my birth parents and my foster parents, those who had chosen to love me before you did.

To my Heavenly Parent:

I know You knew me first, even before I was conceived. I know You knew the path my life would take, even before I ever took my first steps. And though some may say it’s been a hard life, I wouldn’t have wanted anything different. I am so thankful for every parent You gave to help care for me on this earth. Each of them, perhaps even unbeknownst to them, has each in their own way, revealed You to me.

Because my birth mother chose to give me life, I now know that You are the Way, the Truth and the Life.

Because my foster parents cared for me when no one else would, I know that You care for me, especially because I was an orphan.

Because my adoptive parents welcomed me into their family so completely, I know unconditional love and can believe You when You tell me You want to adopt me as well.

Funny, of all of my parents, You are the only One who has told me what it cost You, yet You don’t make me feel guilty for that. You tell me only so I can know without a doubt how much You love me.

So to all my parents I say thank you - some kids only have a few parents, I was blessed to have many. And my prayer is that my gratefulness will be translated into action. That I can take the love given me by all of you and not just hold it all in for myself, but to pour it out to others. To allow your love to continue to flow, from you, through me to others. Please know you made and continue to make a difference in my life and as a result, by the grace of God, a difference in this world.

I love you,

Valerie

I've been a foster parent for fifteen years, and one of the most common comments I get is "How do you do it?" This letter - NOT addressed to me, by the way - is how. Because foster and adoptive parents DO make a difference. It only takes one: one child, one parent; to change the course of a life. Think about it. =)