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What if curiosity healed the cat?

We dropped Sunny off with her relative on Tuesday. It was uneventful. She refused to say goodbye which made it extra hard. Even though I know saying goodbye is really hard for a lot of foster kids – they’ve had to say some really goddamn hard goodbyes in their lives – it still felt yucky not to have that closure. No hug, no last kiss on the head. Just… an awkward walk out the door with her averting her eyes and the family watching.

Since then I’ve been a whirling dervish of cleaning and reorganizing. I’m moving art supplies from attic and playroom into Sunny’s old room, and turning it into an office and guest room. We moved her dresser out and gave it to a woman who makes ends meet by refinishing dressers on the side. (I’m delighted by that. It was a gift from a friend’s estate and will see a whole new life now, reinvigorated.) We moved my desk from the dining room up to the new office room. I’ve moved office supplies and craft supplies and wrapping paper supplies. I’ve boxed up clothes Sunny opted not to take with her and old toys of hers and donated them (thank you Buy Nothing and church for accepting and repurposing all the stuff!) I’ve thrown away a 45 gallon trash bag of junk from her room. I’ve rearranged my dining room. In fact, I’ve barely stopped moving since 4 am Tuesday morning.

I’m beat.

This week I acquired a new piece of equipment that helps people with chronic illness pace themselves. It’s called Visible, and it’s a continuous heart rate monitor. It has been tracking my crazy schedule and energy output, and practically yelled at me this morning to slow the hell down.

Accurate. I am definitely out of balance.

The lack of balance isn’t just physical though, it’s mental, too. I’m keenly aware that I didn’t manage to dig up enough compassion for Sunny in the final two months of her stay. I did not always meet her vile moods with the openness and calm that was needed. I stopped trying to coach her and switched to enduring her. I was not outright unkind, but I wasn’t as kind as I could have been either, considering she’s a tragically mixed up ten year old who chose none of the trauma she’s been subjected to and that has shaped her behaviors.

Compassion is one of my most deeply-held values. And I feel like I failed to hold onto it toward the end.

I went to therapy today and told my therapist about how I’m feeling. She suggested that perhaps the guilt I’m feeling is just further confirmation that compassion is one of my values. And then she said perhaps I can approach my reflections with curiosity rather than self-reproach: curiosity about what it was about Sunny that made me unable to live according to my most deeply held values. Curiosity about how I can shape my life so that I don’t wind up in a position again where my values are challenged in my very home.

She’s right. Curiosity is helping a little.

I’ve realized that the twins PB&J and Sunny have both been epically hard for me. We’ve had 17 foster kids and only those three pushed my limits in that way. With PB&J, they had bonded with each other to the exclusion of the rest of humanity. They lived in their own little world and I could not break in. I couldn’t see my affection and kindness reflected back at me through any kind of bond. And while Sunny was quite a bit older than the twins, the situation was essentially the same with her.

Reactive attachment disorder (“RAD”) is a bitch. Raising kids who are unable to reflect your love back is hard as hell. It drains you and doesn’t refill your batteries. After all, isn’t connection what makes parenting possible through the really hard moments? Even when they’re awful, you know you and your kid love each other. When love goes one way (or is only shown one way) it erodes one’s self esteem, it takes soul energy that it doesn’t replace.

Ok, so. I won’t parent any more kids with RAD or RAD-like behaviors. Easy since we have retired as foster parents. Even if I have to work with kids with RAD as a CASA (Court Appointed Special Advocate) they won’t be living in my house. And ultimately that’s what ate me alive.

My home is my sacred place, especially now that I am not working and home is my only place. Sunny had a black cloud over her head. When she was in the play room lying on the couch and watching her iPad, we all avoided going in that room because it just felt awful to be in there with her. Her mood was palpable. My therapist asked if I’m an empath, and I said yes, and Seth is too. That made me realize just how hard we’ve been fighting not to absorb Sunny’s perpetually foul mood when she was at home. We avoided her bedroom too. It’s like a cloud of funk followed her. And I don’t mean the tween-age body odor that kids her age emit!

I’ve noticed that Sprout has been running around the house like a little freed nymph. She’s in the play room, the sitting room, then up to the new office, and into her own room, then out onto the porch, etc. I think she feels newfound freedom not having her sister lying in the other room poised to yell at her if she goes in that room to get a toy.

In addition to approaching my reflections with curiosity, my therapist also suggested I do some meta-meditation with Sunny as the subject. “May Sunny be happy, may she be well, may she be safe, may she be fulfilled.” She said that while it sounds a bit “woo woo,” it may help me to heal if I’ve shifted my thoughts to such compassionate well-wishes, and started to ingrain those well-wishes into my neural pathways. If nothing else, it will make meeting her again feel healthier. But I think it will also help me feel like I am ultimately a compassionate person again, too.

In the meantime, I’m going to try to force myself to rest and recover and not keep cleaning with such a frantic drive. I’ll try to write in my Silk and Sonder journal, meditate, meta-meditate for Sunny, hydrate, enjoy the fresh air and bird songs, and do something creative. I’ll keep reading my beloved friend Terrance Keenan’s book “Zen Encounters with Loneliness,” which is somehow exactly the right book for me to be reading right now. I’ll keep picking up Mary Oliver’s “Devotions” and flipping to random poems and reading them.

Maybe between the curiosity and the self care activities, I’ll start to find some self compassion, too.

Looking for Redemption

I have spent months wallowing in frustration. Frustration with Sunny’s defiance, her meanness, her cruelty toward her sister, her disregard of others in the community life of our family.

Frustration has led to anger.

I recognize that it is ridiculous that I am angry with a broken ten-year-old for being broken. But knowing and changing are different things. I know my anger isn’t justified. Yet incident after incident of Sunny’s behaviors gives my brain and heart no time to recover and regain their foothold. I feel like I’m constantly scrambling for equilibrium, calmness, patience, or at least the appearance of patience.

My lack of patience feels all the more ridiculous because Sunny’s behavior at school and with others generally is quite good. She’s still mean to her sister all the time, but she saves her defiance and lack of consideration for home. That all fits. She’s rejecting us so it hurts less to leave us. And it fits the profile of a child with reactive attachment disorder. Talking with others who experience Sunny feels sometimes like being gaslit. Is she really so terrible at home? Or is it just me? Others like her and enjoy her company.

Then she unleashes a collection of nasty comments about my appearance, and refuses to clean up her own urine after she’s peed on her laundry rather than go downstairs to the bathroom, and I am reminded that my patience is genuinely being tested.

Overall, my patience is failing.

Sunny likely leaves on Tuesday after school. It will make for a very long day on Tuesday, but everyone in my household wants her home as soon as possible. She is ecstatic at the idea, and her behavior has improved a little now that she has a date and it is so close.

I constantly strive to live a life of compassion. That striving is part of my identity. Spending so much time failing to feel and behave compassionately has taken a huge toll on my self esteem and sense of self.

I am longing for this fresh start when Sunny leaves. I need to feel like I have a chance at behaving compassionately toward the other people I share this life with. Yet I know too well that a fresh start won’t happen unless I find a way to be compassionate toward myself. I need to forgive myself for losing my temper yesterday and raising my voice at her for being especially cruel to Sprout. I need to forgive myself for snapping at her when she demands things rather than asking nicely. I need to forgive myself for feeling so angry toward a broken little ten-year-old.

Compassion toward oneself is the hardest task to achieve. It will be harder than finding compassion toward Sunny, at which I’ve failed miserably lately. Yet it’s crucial that I find a sense of equilibrium after Sunny leaves, and that I do find the fresh start I’m so longing for.

I’ll start working toward that self-compassion through ritual. I’ll clear the house’s energy with candle and incense and fresh air and cleaning and salt. I’ll rip out her gross carpeting and put down new rugs, put on fresh bedding, repair a damaged wall, wallpaper it. I’ll move in my nice desk that currently resides in a busy hallway, move a lot of clutter into her closet in an organized way, and rearrange my dining room once the desk is out of the way in my new office. It’s all going to feel renewing.

I’ll go to therapy and talk with my brilliant insightful therapist. She’ll help me. She always does. Rather than just telling me I need to “be compassionate toward myself” like my old therapist (a mysterious and monumental task I never managed), she’ll break it down into bite-sized doable challenges week by week, until I find compassion oozing in around the edges.

I’m glad it’s summer while all this will be happening. I can open windows and let breezes through. Somehow physical fresh air feels renewing, and renewal is definitely what I need right now. Renewal, self-compassion, and perhaps, redemption.

Foster care is hard in ways I can’t begin to express to folks considering doing it. It will test every limit, challenge every inch of your self-understanding. You’ll be shocked at what you can feel toward some kids in some circumstances, and will wonder what the heck is wrong with you.

It will also, however, bring tremendous joys among the hardships. I remember when Mouse stopped projectile vomiting because we figured out her dairy allergy, and she started to gain weight finally. I remember when Sprout first started to eat on her own after we had force fed her Pediasure via a medicine syringe for days. I remember when Kiddo first told me she loved me, after a very difficult and trying year and a half of raising her.

Has it been worth it? Oh yes, yes it has. I’ve questioned that often, but if nothing else, foster care has brought me two of the great loves of my life: Kiddo and Sprout.

It has also, however, shaken me to my core. When I crawl out from under this current black cloud of frustration and shame about my anger toward Sunny’s behavior, I will be a different person than when I started. Hopefully I’ll be a more compassionate one in the end… toward even myself.

Staying in the System, but in a New Way

I just completed a form to volunteer to be a CASA, or a Court Appointed Special Advocate.

A CASA is a volunteer who is appointed by a family court judge, and then connects with a foster child’s parents and foster parents and teachers and doctors, but most importantly, with the child. The purpose of a CASA is to be a voice for the child. Often CASAs become close with the kids they work with, and become the most consistent face when a kid is moved around a lot within the system.

In my 8 1/2 years as a foster parent I’ve never worked with a CASA. Hell, in my 1 1/2 years as an Attorney for the Child I never worked with a CASA. I should have. Some of the teens I worked with as an attorney especially needed a CASA.

Seth and I are done fostering for myriad reasons. Among the reasons are that Seth needs a safe, consistent, calm home given his sometimes traumatic and always demanding job. And our daughter needs to not be saying goodbye to other kids – it’s so hard on her. She’s also vulnerable, and I don’t want her exposed to behaviors she hasn’t had to encounter. Plus, I’m getting older and have little stamina with my medical issues and can’t chase after littles anymore.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t stay involved with vulnerable kids touched by the system.

I’m not sure what this journey is going to be like. I need to limit my volunteerism to just a couple of kids – I can’t take on a ton. But I’m comfortable in advocating for kids in court, and absolutely love meeting the amazing kids who get caught up in the system. This seems like it will involve both things.

I’m excited to start on this new stage!

The Winding Down

I took Sunny to the pediatrician this morning. She was just due for a routine checkup, but I of course informed them that she is being discharged from our county’s care and moved to a relative a few hours away. They made it a discharge appointment, where they gave her shots a little ahead of time so her relative doesn’t have to worry about getting her them and getting proof to her new school, and they wrote out more explicit instructions for her care than they otherwise would.

At the end of the appointment, the Nurse Practitioner, who we’ve known for years now, said, “I’m sure I’ll see you with another kid soon.” I replied, “No, actually, we are done fostering and closing our home. We’ve got [Sprout] at home still of course, but we are closing up shop as soon as [Sunny] leaves.”

First she looked shocked. Then a little sad. Then she asked me, “Will you be going back to work, then?” I sheepishly replied, “No no, I’m just enjoying being a stay at home Mom.” Explaining my largely invisible disability to folks usually takes more effort than it’s worth.

I’m sure she will report that we are closing to the pediatrician who started the clinic the foster kids in our county go to. He’s become a trusted partner over the time we’ve been fostering, though his trust was hard won. He’s a good doctor, and a good human, and he’s the reason we managed to get Sprout placed with us. He agreed that we were okay for her to go to rather than the hospital, despite her being on death’s door, because he knew and trusted us to manage her complex needs. We did. She got healthy under our care. And now she’ll grow up with us as her parents.

I know that pediatrician will be sad that we are leaving foster care and honestly I wouldn’t be shocked if he calls or runs into Seth at the hospital and tries to convince us to stay open. He gets that – to the extent any foster home can be good – we are one of the good ones. And since we specialized in medically fragile kids, he’ll be sad to see us go.

It’s a strange feeling.

When I saw a fellow foster parent walking into the clinic with her newly-placed toddler this morning, I felt a twinge of regret. I felt a bigger twinge of regret when I thought about the pediatrician’s reaction when he learns we are closing. But neither twinge was big enough to override my desire to settle into a peaceful rhythm with my Family of Three Plus-Kiddo.

Through a lot of therapy, Seth and I have come to understand that part of the reason I thrived in foster care was because of the constant generation of adrenaline, dopamine, endorphins, and even some oxytocin. Foster care is a constant roller coaster of chaos. And I liked it. Perhaps a little too much.

New kids were often coming into our home, and when that happened there was the newness, and the adrenaline rush of meeting the bio parents for the first time, and the mystery of finding out what sort of case worker we’d landed with, and the need to shop for new clothing and supplies. There was the need to understand the complex medical issues for our medically fragile kids, and tons of doctor appointments. And there was developing a schedule and a routine, which takes a lot of concerted effort.

Even after the initial newness wore off, there were the tensions around court dates and the excitement and fireworks that often happened there. There was constant activity and stimulation, from bio parent visits to medical appointments, from visiting nurses and therapists to needing new clothes for growing kids.

Then there was the emotion and running around that came when kids were leaving. It was packing up clothing and toys and books. It was increased visits with family, and more medical appointments. It was sadness and loss. And it was all tinged with a little bit of excitement about the newness that would soon follow when another kid was placed with us.

I have ADHD, and overall I’d say I’m sensory seeking (though I am autistic too so not surprisingly there are certain stimuli I avoid like the plague as well). But overall I’d say I’m a bit of a dopamine junkie.

Isn’t that what our society is becoming? We get dopamine hits from social media, and tech in general. We get it from shopping, which has become far too convenient (here’s looking at you, Amazon…). But me? I decided to get creative and seek it from being a foster parent.

Now that Seth is a nurse, he lives on the edge at work. He doesn’t need any additional stimulation. He needs relaxation at home so the traumas and adrenaline of his work situation can ebb from his system on his days off. He’s been loud and clear that he needs to stop fostering so that home because a refuge again, and I’m on board fully.

That means I’m having to find ways of coping with less adrenaline, and fewer dopamine hits. I’m having to learn how to sit with quietness and peace, and be okay with it. It’s going to take work. Hard work. I can’t just turn to easy fixes of dopamine like shopping because that causes its own issues. Instead I have to slow down, quiet down, and focus on the good that I already have in my life.

There’s good stuff like Sprout, for example, who I love so hard it hurts. Good stuff like summer warmth, and a new cushiony rocker on my back patio from which I can observe my garden and the bird house where the house wrens are raising their family. And there’s good stuff like immersing myself in creative projects such as the fairy house I’m currently making for Sprout. It’s stuff like mediation, and reading, and more therapy. It sounds idyllic, doesn’t it? But I’m having to learn to be okay with it, with a slower pace, and less adrenaline and dopamine.

Sunny is still here, which is complicating my process of adjustment. She’s still a massive challenge, but she’s getting a tiny bit easier as we get closer to her date of going home. She knows she’s almost there now. It doesn’t seem so impossibly far away. We’ve started packing her toys and belongings, which seems to be helping too.

I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet and all the “good stuff.” I’m sure I’ll always feel occasional twinges of regret about not meeting more amazing kids, and not watching them turn around medically in our care. I’m also sure it’s better for my family and me to turn off the adrenaline and dopamine factory of foster care now.

Feeling at Home

Seth and I have been struggling mightily with our household lately. Sunny knows there are only a few weeks before she goes home, and she’s ramped up her behaviors significantly. Intellectually I get that she’s pushing us and her sister away so that leaving is easier. I get that she’s only 10, and is struggling. She wants to be home right now, dammit. She doesn’t understand why she has to complete the school year here. She doesn’t understand her feelings, doesn’t have good coping mechanisms despite a lot of therapy trying to help her with that, and is basically just full of resentment.

It comes out as defiance, lying, and meanness to the extreme. She tells her sweet little 6-year-old sister Sprout not to say she’s her sister and that she doesn’t love her, and that she, in fact, hates her. She tells her sister terribly mean things, and bosses her around relentlessly. She tells Seth and me terribly mean things, like that I look pregnant on any given day, and I shouldn’t wear that outfit if I don’t want people to say that. She tells me her friends all say I look like a boy because I have short hair. She tells me I smell, or that I have too many chins to be pretty, and so on. It’s relentless.

I can cope with her meanness toward me ok but I hate it when she’s mean to Sprout. And her lying drives me right up the wall. She’s taken to urinating in all sorts of strange places too, which we think is her trying to be so “bad” that we will send her home early. She’s actually admitted she’s trying to be as bad as possible so we’ll give up on her and send her home.

She’s just Not OK.

We have a countdown chart on the refrigerator that she is using to track how long before she can go home, but man, it’s not helping. Sunny is a flat out mess.

Our house does not feel like a home with this level of dysregulation dominating everything. I don’t want to be in those four walls except when she’s at school, and I just start to relax when it’s time for her to come home each day. In short, this end of her stay with us feels like torture.

Consequently, just imagine my delight at having a “girls weekend” scheduled with a friend from law school this weekend! Three days away from Sunny and her emotional chaos and acting out! (Also, poor Seth at home with Sunny solo…)

My friend and I are staying at a VRBO in the middle of a field surrounded by woods. I’ve listened with joy to wood thrush and veery, spotted a flicker and a cat bird, and got to watch a tiny fawn wobble all knock-kneed into the woods. It’s sunshine and rain, fresh breeze and cool air, good fresh food, and good company. I can feel the stress flowing off me.

Yet even despite all the joys this escape has to offer, I found myself a little homesick. I’m not homesick for the place I call home, but the people.

My friend and I were at the local farmer’s market this morning when I got a call from Sprout’s Girl Scout leader. Sprout happened to be Girl Scout camping for the first time ever near where my VRBO is, and she’d come down with a fever and wanted me to come get her. So I did, of course. My friend graciously dropped her plans and we went to fetch Sprout at Girl Scout camp.

As I forced Sprout to lie down to rest, I crawled into bed with her for my own nap. I gazed on her lovely little almond shaped face, still a little flushed from fever, and realized how content I suddenly was. Sprout is home. How a fellow human can feel like home is a mystery to me, but it’s true.

This isn’t the first time I’ve felt that way about another human. My best friend in high school – who is still my beloved BFF – was the first time another human felt like home. I’ve felt that way about my husband. But it’s the first time I’ve recognized that my own child feels like home to me now.

Now that she’s here in this little cabin, I’m not homesick anymore. I am, in a word, content.

I think home will start to feel homey again in a few weeks when Sunny leaves. Her distress is palpable in the air right now. It’s almost something you can smell when you walk in. When she has left with all her things, I will tear out the urine soaked carpet from her room and reclaim the space as our office. I shall get all new agey, and burn some cleansing incense and do some reiki and anything else I can think of to restore my house’s equilibrium.

Seth and I have our own work to do. As we’ve wound down our fostering, we’ve recognized that we have neglected our marriage for the 8 1/2 years we have fostered, and it’s in need of some TLC. We have focused our energy on kids’ extensive needs and putting out the eternal fires of chaos rather than on each other. Dates? What are those? We have a marriage therapist, and summer vacation plans in France, and hopes that when Sunny is gone, we can settle into a kind of peaceful family life with Sprout that we’ve never experienced before. We hope that our house and the other person will start to feel like home again, too.

But man, foster care is hard on marriage, family, sanity, house, and self. I admire people who have done it for 25 years or more like hell, but I haven’t got what it takes for that. 8 1/2 years of it was everything I had.

Today, though, I’m just going to delight in my feisty, funny, sweet daughter and how homey her little self feels to me.

It’s Mother’s Day, FWIW

It’s no secret that I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. I always struggled with it as a younger adult because I didn’t have kids, didn’t want biological kids, and felt inherently that Mother’s Day was the world’s way to point out that I wasn’t the “ideal woman.” Ideal women prioritize reproduction.

Once I became a foster mom, Mother’s Day got even more complicated.

For one thing, I was into my 40s, and had reached the stage of life where many of my friends were struggling with Mother’s Day too. Some of my friends had lost their moms pretty young, robbed of life too soon. Other friends were struggling with infertility as they reached the end of their child bearing years, or with pregnancy losses. Those ever circulating Mother’s Day memes about pregnancy and birth (epidural? C-section? Did you know the gender first? Etc.) hurt those friends tremendously.

For another thing, some folks insisted – quite loudly – that I wasn’t a “real mom” because the kids I was raising weren’t my flesh and blood and I could “return them” at any time if I couldn’t handle them. So though I was wiping butts and feeding kids, worrying about nutrition and the best way to handle tantrums, going sleepless when kids were sick, and forgetting what a romantic date was because I was focused on parenting instead of my marriage, I wasn’t deemed “Mom” enough. This was an attitude that pervaded my law firm. Most of the women in positions of power there, and even some of my peers, went out of their way to treat me like I didn’t get what motherhood is really about.

What I felt was a great big eff off to those women, because they were so damn privileged they never had to worry about parenting kids who had experienced extreme trauma AND those who were medically fragile. They didn’t know what it was like to become frantic while a child screamed for 3 hours while hiding behind the couch because a man at daycare reminded them of someone who hurt their mom. The helplessness of not knowing what to do to break the child’s torment is horrific. They didn’t know what it was like to have your kid stop breathing entirely during the middle of the night and watch the first responder absolutely panic when he couldn’t get the child to breathe either. They didn’t know what it was like to clean up vomit for the 4th time in a single morning because their child had a traumatic brain injury, but the vomiting the injury was causing could cause further damage. I was in the goddamn trenches compared with most of the women who looked upon me as a mother with disdain.

Am I finally a real-enough mom now that I’ve adopted a child and she’s “mine” for good? Well, this is my first year as an adoptive mom to Sprout, but there’s still the Sunny factor to contend with.

Sunny is miserable today, and understandably so. She misses her “real mom,” as Sunny puts it. Her bio mom. The one who screwed up so badly that Sunny landed in foster care for a year and a half. The one Sunny forgives wholeheartedly and holds a deep grudge against simultaneously. The one Sunny longs for when she cries herself to sleep at night, but who still doesn’t have it together enough for Sunny to go home to her. The one Sunny keeps hoping against hope will get it together again for her and her siblings.

Sunny’s mood is contagious. None of us are cheery. I already sniped at Sunny for avoiding doing a small task I asked her to do. I should not have done so. She’s having a shitty day and it’s not her fault. But dang. Her obstinance pushes all my buttons. Every. Time.

I’m the grownup here. I’m the one who should be handling everything with maturity, and kindness, and compassion. I believe that the opposite of defiance is not compliance. That just leads to battles of wills. The opposite of defiance is connection. What I ought to be doing is connecting with Sunny to help her through her rough day today and every day. But like a damn 3 year old, I find I don’t want connection with her right now. She so hurtful with her nasty jibes (“you look pregnant in that outfit” being one of my favorites, along with “your haircut is so much like a boy. None of my friends understand why you did that to your hair” being another).

She’s so clearly not wanting connection herself. We are both human beings trying to protect ourselves from impending separation, to make sure that our lives after she goes home are as good as possible. She’s kept me at arms length ever since she learned she’s going home. And even though I’m straining with the effort of trying to be compassionate toward her and myself, I’m mostly feeling like a bad mom for being snippy and short tempered with her, and that spills over onto Sprout and Kiddo on occasion even.

Here’s the thing. Bio moms don’t get to choose the genetics of their kids. I’m lucky in that my problem will end when Sunny goes home, where she desperately wants to be. Spring break week without her here was positively bliss! I felt patient and kind and had endless fun with Sprout that week. We connected so well without a kid here souring my mood. But bio moms? They don’t get an escape hatch. They’re stuck. They can love their children so much they’d die for them in a heartbeat, and still not like them very much. I feel for those moms today, big time. Feeling like a failure of a mom is the worst feeling, especially on Mother’s Day.

I know I’m a good Mom to Sprout. I’m a good whatever-I-am to Kiddo (her Mom and I have started referring to me as her “godmother” as a way to explain who I am to other folks. While it’s not true, it’s close enough for me.) I’m not doing great by Sunny. All of those things can be true simultaneously. And it’s okay.

Motherhood is effing hard.

Not being a Mom when you want to be one is effing hard.

Being alienated from or missing your Mom or Moms is effing hard.

Feeling like a failure as a Mom is effing hard.

Being a mothering-type to a beloved kid but never getting Mom credit is effing hard.

Being a non-binary parent and not getting a Day is effing hard. Or worse, being a transgender Mom and people still treating you like you’re “Dad” is effing hard.

A truly heartfelt Happy Mother’s Day to the Moms out there who feel good celebrating today, and to the kids enjoying celebrating their Moms.

To the rest of the women (and non-binary parents who get overlooked), I see you. I hear you. Your experiences with this day are valid. Take care of yourself as best you can. Let yourself mourn as you need to and don’t let anyone shame you out of it. This day is complicated, just like the rest of human experience.

Disabled, officially. For now.

I’ve written before about my health struggles (see here). In sum, I have psoriatic arthritis and ulcerative colitis – both of which are autoimmune diseases – and fibromyalgia, which is an issue with the pain system of the body.

The good news is I’ve been awarded social security disability, for now. It’s been a two and a half year process of applying, having a stupidly ridiculous medical exam meant to exclude people from getting disability, being denied, hiring an attorney (ask me for his name if you’re in CNY and need one – he’s da bomb diggety), appealing, being denied again, appealing again, submitting oodles more paperwork, getting a doctor’s report stating I am, in fact, not able to work right now, and having a trial before an administrative law judge.

The whole process was honestly pretty degrading, except for the attorney and the administrative law judge. Both were kind. But having every ounce of your health pulled out and examined and being doubted by the system the whole time is just simply awful.

I sadly cannot work as a lawyer right now. You don’t need all the gory details, but I’ll put it this way: I cannot conduct depositions and hold meetings and write briefs while running to the bathroom 8x times per day in an “it’s an emergency” fashion, nor can I do those things while needing 12-14 hours of sleep a day, including during the middle of the day.

I’m immensely relieved to have this little reprieve where I can get disability payments while I work on my health. It’ll be up for review again before I even know it, but at least, for now, I’ll have some income to help out our household. Funds have been tight. Both our cars need replacement. We need a new roof. We haven’t had the cash to do those things and the car repair payments are taking their own toll. Most of y’all know what it’s like to be broke. I don’t need to elaborate too much.

After getting the judge’s decision granting me disability, I’ve felt like I can breathe again.

The other good news is that I’m on a new-to-me drug called Stelara, that I just started about a month and a half ago. Getting it, too, was a ridiculous runaround. The manufacturer dropped the ball somewhere during the process of getting the drug to the specialty pharmacy, and I had to spend hours (literal hours) tracking down what had gone wrong and where so that I could get my first shipment of the drug. It delayed treatment by about a month. A month of not being on any immunosuppressants and feeling like poo. Heh, literally.

A month and a half in, I’d say I’m about 20% better. I’m hoping for more as time goes on. This is not a quick fix sort of medication. But I have some hope for further improvement, which is nice.

I’m also switching to a new gastroenterologist – I see the new one next week for the first time and I’m super excited about it. The one I’ve been seeing has been better than any I’ve seen in the past, but also kind of terrible in some ways. I’m hoping for more proactive care. I already have a fantastic rheumatologist and PCP, and it took me many, many years to find them. Having a good medical team is huge.

What’s it like being home all the time on disability? Aside from the obvious (painful and feeling tired and icky), it’s a mixed bag.

I love being home for my kids before and after school.

I love being able to snorgle cats in the middle of the day. In fact, one is resting his fuzzy head on my right thumb as I type this. It’s awkward and too damn cute to interrupt. My right arm is falling asleep.

I love that if I have the energy, I can read, I can paint if my hands are feeling good enough, and I can write. If I were working and this ill, I could not have an ounce of time free to do any of those things at all, ever. I sleep too damn much. A commute alone would consume the only non-working waking hours I would get. Disability is making it possible for me to wrest some enjoyment out of life still.

On the flip side, I loathe being unable to complete simple tasks like cleaning activities around the house. Most days even showering is hard – that requires a lot of spoons because of all the sensory input.

Yesterday, I bought some chairs off FB Marketplace for our dining room table. It was long overdue – we’ve had the most motley collection of IKEA and falling-apart garage sale chairs for a long, long time. Before that we had chairs we’d refinished that had come from an old shoe store that had belonged to my husband’s parents. We’ve never had decent chairs with our lovely table. So when I found these on Marketplace, I jumped at the chance to snap them up. But my husband was working yesterday, so I had to go get the chairs on my own. It took me the ENTIRE DAY to get car seats out of my car and get the seats folded down, get the chairs in and then out of my car, put car seats back in the car, and get the chairs in the house. Like, really?!? It was a low energy, high fatigue, and high pain day, and that task – that would take my husband 45 minutes including driving time – took me a damn day.

I never did manage to get the old chairs into the barn. Seth did that when he got home after a 12 hour shift nursing on the hospital floor.

Sometimes that stuff really gets to me.

Sometimes it really gets to me that Seth has to do more than he should have to around the house because I can’t keep up with it all.

Sometimes I feel like I’m no longer contributing to the world in ways that I once enjoyed because I’m not working.

Thank heavens I’m naturally an optimist and not a wallower, and thank the gods above I have a terrific psychiatrist who helps keep depression and anxiety at bay. I can see how those things could easily run the zoo.

With regard to fostering, my health is one of the many reasons we are retiring. I’m ashamed to admit I am eagerly looking forward to Sunny going home so that the stress levels in my house can go down. Stress makes inflammation worse. I’ll write more about that stress soon. Just suffice it to say, spending spring break with her family made us all certain that Sunny being with her family is the right choice, and that waiting for the time for that to happen is torturous for all of us.

I desperately miss the 2 and 3 year olds. Will we ever foster again? Maybe I would but I don’t think Seth ever will. The agency bull$hit has been too much for him, for good. It probably should be for me too. But like I said above, optimist here. I’d have to get healthier before I could handle any other kids anyway, so I think it’s probably for the best that Seth is completely burned out for good.

I try my damndest to be proactive about doctors and medications and sleep and exercise and diet – all the things I’m supposed to do. I fail at a lot of things because my health gets in the way. But I just keep plugging along because that’s how I am.

And for now anyway, I’m going to enjoy the hell out of my family of 3 (plus cats).

Solo Kid Contemplations

It’s spring break week in my house. That means Sunny is off staying with her relative 130+ miles away, and Sprout has her parents to herself.

So far it’s been nothing short of joyous.

Sunday, my husband and I took Sprout to a little city about an hour away. It’s got a great kids’ science museum, and Sprout romped her way through it, soaking up the attention of both parents.

Yesterday Sprout woke up not feeling great, and I even cancelled her violin lesson, but she rallied late morning and wanted to go somewhere. My husband was working, but I took her to a nearby wildlife refuge. I bought myself a new pair of binoculars and gave Sprout my old pair, which are decent but inexpensive. We drove slowly through the refuge, windows down, sun shining off the water, little puffy white clouds in the sky. We spotted great blue herons and egrets, northern shovelers and ring neck ducks, mallards and Canada geese, and zillions of purple martins. It was a delicious day, and several times Sprout exclaimed “Mommy, this is the best day EVER!”

Mind you, by the end of our trip yesterday I was exhausted. Two busy days back-to-back is too much for me in a lot of ways, even though we’d just been driving around on Monday. So by the time we got home I crashed and crawled into bed for a nap instead of cleaning. My house is still looking like a hurricane ripped through it. Oh well. Fun was had!

At first when we dropped off Sunny on Saturday, Sprout complained that she missed her sister sooooo much. She repeated the phrase numerous times. She tried to get some tears going about missing her on Saturday night, but none actually fell. She mentioned missing her sister once or twice on Sunday. She didn’t say it at all yesterday.

I’m finding myself with infinite patience and good humor for Sprout. I have felt relaxed and even-keeled in Sunny’s absence, and I have way more energy for fun activities with just Sprout. I found myself this morning having a spontaneous dance party with Sprout as she helped me put away dishes. Everything is more fun right now.

There has been no doubt in my mind for quite a while that poor Sunny’s behaviors are stressing me out. Non-stop lying, constant intentional rule breaking and bending and testing, and lots of button pushing are getting to me. I know Sunny just wants to be home with her family and that’s a lot of what’s going on for her. I also know that she learned some survival skills in her first 8 1/2 years that served her well then, but don’t necessarily do so now.

Is it even possible being without her sister will be healthier for Sprout? There’s no clear answer and never will be. There’s a massive downside to not living with any biological relatives. That fact is backed by science. But Sprout’s behavior is better by far without Sunny instigating her to break rules, and without question, Sprout gets her best Mom when Sunny isn’t here stressing me out and frustrating me.

When Seth looked back as he was leaving after dropping Sunny off on Saturday, Sunny was curled up on the couch, dozing snuggled with her big sister who is recovering from a big surgery. Sunny was perfectly, infinitely content and happy.

If I needed further reassurance that our decision to suggest that Sunny go home to her relative was the right call, I’ve got it. I think it’s right for both kids. Or more right than the alternative, anyway.

Heartache

I just got a call from the agency that I deeply appreciate having gotten.

Years ago we told our homefinder (basically our case worker) that if ever a child we’ve fostered comes back into foster care, we want to be called first.

It’s happened twice now. The first time I got a call it was for the Happiest Baby Who Ever Lived. She’d only been with us for a week initially before going to a relative, which relative later suddenly decided she didn’t want the baby anymore and called the agency to find another home for the child That Day. It all blows my mind because she was the easiest baby conceivable. But anyway, I said yes to the child coming back to us, but the agency was able to send her back to her parents a little early instead, since they were on track to get her back within the next 2 months anyway. That worked out well.

Today when I got the call for a child we’ve fostered coming back into care, it is very different. My stomach is clenched. I feel nauseated and sweaty and light headed. And though we said no to the little boy coming back to us, it’s a decision that will haunt me.

Gronckle was our second long-term foster placement. He came to us when he was just 7 months old. He lived with us with Kiddo, and the two of them got along like a house afire. He was all little boy energy, raucous and rowdy and rambunctious. By the time Gronckle was a year old, 5-year-old Kiddo was matching his energy, and the two wrestled and giggled and accidentally broke lamps and furniture and kept me hopping.

When Gronckle came to us from another foster home at 7 months of age, we were told he was on an adoption track, meaning no suitable relative had been found and his Mama wasn’t going to get him back. We lived for about 7 months believing we were adopting Gronckle.

Then because it’s foster care and anything can happen, the father was identified, against all odds. He wasn’t an option to take custody because he was incarcerated until after the child turned 18, but he had a relative who was put forward as someone to take Gronckle.

Normally we support reunifications regardless of the cost to us, and we started out doing so in this case. But then we met the relative and her relatives and saw the cockroach infested house, the dog feces and urine around the entire house where kids were walking barefoot. We saw suspicious activity going on, and the people who were coming in and out of the house at all hours. And we knew we couldn’t let this reunification happen without a fight.

Let me back up to say the child had the World’s Worst Case Worker. Legit he was horrifically bad. He was aggressive with us from the start because we had made complaints to the agency about one of Kiddo’s former case workers who was a friend of his. During his first visit to our house, the man stood in my kitchen and gave me a dressing down, which amounted to his telling us we were wrong to complain about the other case worker and it was unprofessional and inappropriate for us to have done so (we had wicked good reason for the complaints – but that’s for another blog post).

After the unprovoked confrontation and after catching him in numerous lies intended to keep us from attending court hearings on the case, we asked to have another case worker assigned. The agency higher up we spoke with asked us to come in and meet with her about it. But when we got there we found we were ambushed – she had the bad case worker in the room and he was prepared to lie his way out of every accusation. They refused to switch case workers and we were told we were becoming “problematic foster parents.” Oy. Happy memories.

Anyway, we hated the dude. He was rude every time we saw him, and since he held a grudge against us, we felt he was seeking relatives in part to spite us. He was also, it turns out (and this is based off the word of someone we trust immensely who shall remain anonymous) trying to avoid Termination of Parental Rights paperwork because despite being with the agency for years, he’d always managed to avoid the difficult task.

So my husband and I talked with Gronckle’s attorney, who agreed with us wholeheartedly. He fought the return with everything he had. But based on the word of the agency’s very worst caseworker, the court deemed the relative’s home “appropriate” and sent Gronckle to go live with his relative without even planning for a transition for the then 16-month-old child who was firmly bonded to us and who had never met this relative.

I’ve wondered and worried about the child ever since.

When I got the call today about his coming back into foster care, it felt like the wind was knocked out of me. I was not an ounce surprised. I knew the situation he was going back to was bad. But this is the worst case scenario. It takes A LOT for the agency and court to remove kids.

Gronckle now has 4 littler siblings. And they’re all coming into care late in the day. They need somewhere to go. But my house???

My husband and I are winding down our fostering journey. We have adopted 5-year-old Sprout, and her 10-year-old sister Sunny is now officially going home at the end of the school year. Both kids are struggling with this transition, especially Sprout. They both deserve a smooth transition and do not need the introduction of a highly traumatized 7-year-old to the household. Gronckle will have seen and experienced a great deal by now. He was always a kid with major destructive energy, and he always had a massive temper. I can’t imagine he’s had help learning how to cope with either thing productively.

Part of my saying no is wanting to have peaceful loving time with Sprout with no other kids around after her sister goes home. Part of it is wanting to protect her from who-knows-what trauma behaviors that Gronckle may have. Part of it is knowing my own health limitations, which are considerable. Part of it is wanting Sprout and Sunny to be able to grieve and celebrate the new upcoming transition in a healthy way. Part of it is having no bedroom to put Gronckle in. There are so many good reasons for saying no. Gronckle doesn’t remember us, so it’s not like he’s wanting to be here in particular.

I admit though, that if the call had been for Mouse instead of Gronckle I would have said yes on the spot. And that knowledge leaves me feeling unsettled. Mouse was a baby and toddler who was with us longer and more recently than Gronckle, though it’s still been a long time. But honestly? Some kids just tug stronger on our hearts than others and that is an unpleasant knowledge. They’re all equally deserving.

Say a prayer or send good vibes to my Gronckle, readers. He deserves good things and a good foster home and permanency. I’ll be losing sleep thinking about him and sending my own good energy vibes to him across the city.

Time on Hold

We’re all on the struggle bus right now.

For one thing, we are waiting for good weather eagerly, and being thwarted. So far NY has offered us an earthquake and an eclipse for April, and today there’s a bit of sun, but we are all feeling cooped up and are wanting SUN and WARMTH enough to garden and play outside. This time of year always makes me antsy.

For another, the grownups are waiting for court. We want confirmation that the plan the agency, Sunny’s attorney, Sunny’s relative, Sunny’s Mom, Sunny, and my husband and I have concocted will be approved by the judge: having Sunny go home to her relative for spring break week, and having her go home to the relative for good at the end of the school year. We know it’s likely to be approved since everrrrybody else is on board. The attorney and my husband and I have a lot of power here, and since we are in agreement, the odds of it being denied are slim. But that final say is going to make everyone less antsy.

The kids are struggling too, each in their own way. The both know Sunny is likely to go home at the end of the school year. Normally we wouldn’t tell kids until the court said it was final, but word slipped at a visit, so we explained it all, including that the judge still has the final say.

Sunny wants to go home now. Like, yesterday. But she also is processing the facts of this change. She’s not going to be able to take all her stuff with her. Her relative has a tiny apartment filled with lots and lots of people. It would be impossible for Sunny to take all her clothing and all her stuffies and all her toys. There is literally not enough space for it all. So she has to go through things and decide what she loves most and that’s hard for a kid who hasn’t had much and suddenly found herself having a lot more. Sunny is also processing that she won’t be here for Halloween or Christmas, which aren’t celebrated by her Muslim family. (We got special permission from her Mom for Sunny to celebrate Halloween and Christmas with us). She’s just struggling to wrap her head around what it’s going to be like to be home, and what she’ll be missing out on by going home.

As a result of all this impending change, Sunny has been a bit volatile. Some days she’s happy about it all and cheerful. But more often she’s annoyed that she has to wait to go home. She’s rebelling against these two grownups who aren’t going to be her grownups much longer. She’s also hormonal. And she’s a kid who has experienced a lot of trauma and who doesn’t have a great vocabulary for expressing what she’s feeling. All-in-all, she’s been pretty hard to parent.

Sprout is doing better, mostly because she’s a more stable kid overall. She was removed from the trauma of her home situation (the removal itself being trauma) at a much younger age and has been adjusting to life here with us longer. She does, however, frequently say that she doesn’t want Sunny to go home. We got her set up with a therapist because we feel like she’s going to need one through this transition. We’ve kept dialogue about it all open so she can talk freely about her feelings. But there isn’t much else we can really do – she just has to go through it. I hate seeing her sad.

Seth and I are struggling to parent Sunny through this transition. I totally understand wanting to wait till the end of the school year before sending her home. She has an IEP and it would be challenging to get it implemented at a big city school district for just the last couple months of school. But holy Hannah, Sunny is hard to parent right now. She’s struggling and it comes out as defiance fairly often and while I don’t blame her, I don’t necessarily want to go through more than 2 1/2 more months of this.

Waiting is hard.

Transitions are hard.

Waiting for a big transition feels a little like torture.