O Christmas Trauma, O Christmas Trauma

Tis' the season.

Ack.

Any of you parents out there with squirrelly kids are like:

For whatever reason, this year has been more tricky for us than in times past. We have gone through a lot of changes in the last few months and I know that hasn't helped, but, daggum it, I didn't expect those changes to screw things up as much as they have. Ha.

Daniel has gotten his second referral of the school year. Both were totally deserved.

This morning at the Christmas program at church, his eyes were darting all over the place. I could see them from clear in the back. When the program was over I had him sit on my lap so that I could apply pressure to his chest, which really did help him re-center and have a better day, but after over an hour of sitting there, my arms felt like limp noodles.

Garth and I were sitting in the living room a couple of nights ago after the kids were in bed and we really could chuckle about how far we have come.

Daniel has come SO VERY FAR, but there are just going to be times in his life that he is going to struggle.

We can call it PTSD, or whatever string of letters that you would like, but ultimately we have to live with it and no matter what is causing it, it stinks.

And as much as it stinks for us, it stinks for him more. He has verbalized that his brain is feeling bad right now and he hates it.

It's especially hard now, because it is the time of year where we are around more people and busy with more things (it is a self-feeding cycle). I totally hate making excuses for my ten year old's unpleasant behavior, and I am SO SORRY if he is rude to you. Please understand if I ask you not to give him a superhero toy, I am not trying to be mean or steal his fun. If I ask you not to give him lots of attention when he is acting silly don't think I don't love him or delight in him, because I do. With ever fiber, I do love and delight in him and I want him to have fun, but I KNOW my son enough to know that is not what he needs in the moment.

These days will pass and he will settle back down. It's always a cycle. In the meantime, give us a spot of grace.

Hospitality: Revisited

I love "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" by Dr. Suess.

I am not sure why I exactly love it, but every year it resonates with me. Some years it is because I am a total Grinch and I love the illustrations of his face as his wicked thoughts on how to spoil Christmas go through his mind. I am sure that the image of the long-suffering Max with a stick tied to his head has something to do with it, too, but I think for myself and for most connoisseurs, it comes down to this quote:

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.”

So, I bet you are wondering what this has to do with hospitality...

Here it is!

Many times we have this idea that hospitality has to come with packages, boxes or bags! The daunting task of "entertaining" our guests keeps us from inviting them in the first place.

Here is the truth: there are people who want a comfy couch to sit on or snooze on after lunch. There are people who simply want to watch a movie of their choosing, or have access to a stove to make a meal.

Entertainment is something that anyone can buy, but home is a gift.

Moral of the story: don't geek yourself out about hosting people, worrying about how to entertain them. Invite them into your home and into your life. Show them where the food is, where the bathrooms are and how to work the showers, and leave the rest to happy chance.

Don't bog yourself down with "process" and "ministry." And for goodness sake, don't be a bean counter.

Be you.
Give yourself.
Be present.
Laugh.
Mess up.

These are the things that form the lasting memories and the precious connections.

Blood Whistles and Poop of Love: Life in an ESL home

(Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, if you are reading this, don't read the title and think you raised me wrong)

If you have been reading along for awhile, you know that our home is a home that hosts many different languages.

In the day to day stuff, it is no big deal. I mean, we can't play a good game of Balderdash or Scattergories, but life is good, and in my opinion, we communicate pretty well.

But my opinion is not always reality.

Far too often feelings are hurt and decisions are made based on a failure to communicate.

Let's face it, even in the most homogeneous of environments, people can struggle with effective communication.

We all speak a different language based on our history. Garth comes from a Deaf home. English was not his first language, ASL was. His family also had some pretty unique dynamics that have colored the way that he has learned to deal with communication. I bring my upbringing where 'flibilee' is a word and crick is what's over behind the neighbor's house.

People that stay with us not only bring their language; they bring their culture, their faith, their hurts and disappointments, and their prejudices. For better or worse.

Communication can be bumpy and laughable at best and devastating at worst.

One of the laughable moments was last night when Grace was trying to explain to Daniel what the blue things were in his arms.

"Those are veins."

"Dey are not veins. I have blood whistles!"

It took me a second. Haha.

But it makes perfect sense! He is taking a word that he hears and fitting it into the context he understands.

When he first came home he LOVED the song "Proof of Your Love" by Casting Crowns. He would bellow along, making a joyful noise. (He is totally tone deaf, but what he lacks in gifting, he makes up for in volume).

After a few weeks, I started really listening. It wasn't his accent. No. He was singing "Poop of Your Love" instead of "PROOF."

I asked him if he knew what "proof" meant. Of course he didn't. But he knew what poop meant.

Ay yi yi.

Just In Case You Have Ever Been Under The Illusion That We Have It All Together...

Remember that day when the dryer broke and you tried to fix it and got your favorite pair of unmentionables stuck in the dryer, which then broke it even worse? (Not to mention, left the above-mentioned unmentionables in shreds).

And then you were running late to pick up your kid's TUBERCULOSIS medication from the Health Department and you get a call from the school that one of your kids has LICE!

...And you have NO dryer.

...And your kid has consumption!

...And your other kid has lice.

No, Sweet Readers, this is not a Little House on the Prairie re-write; this was my day yesterday.

And all of those things that were going on were punctuated with copious tears.

Today is a new day. A day that I am enjoying the scent of laundry dried outside. A day that ALL the sheets are getting washed.

There is always something to be thankful for. Always.

Itchy Scars

When I was fifteen I was hit by a car. My elbow went through the windshield and I spent the next year and a half being pieced back together.

I have my arm today thanks to a great doctor's humble spirit and knowledge of his limitations.

When it first happened, it shaped my entire world. Everything was demarcated by "before the accident" and "after the accident." I was pulled into a whirlpool of PTSD and a profound sense of loss. At the time, it was a gigantic tragedy.

Through the years, I have dealt with those initial feelings like you would play whack-a-mole. Even today, there are times that I can feel deeply grieved when I think about the accident.

I have been blessed with some wonderful counselors, and some not so wonderful counselors, along the way.

The first guy that I saw, when I was absolutely crippled by panic, told me that I needed to think about the worst case scenario and then picture how I would handle it...and poof! I should feel better because now I know how to handle anything.

Ha. Wrong! What that metastasized into was me frantically running scenarios for every situation: always having an escape route, being hyper-vigilant. It turned into an obsession over the years.

I was blessed with two therapists that were familiar with PTSD and they really finally helped me flush so much of that out.

What I am left with, today, is a weather-telling arm.

My forearm aches when weather systems are coming in. A deep bone ache that no amount of Advil seems to touch or rubbing seems to help. My hand feels weak and I stretch and stretch, trying to release the tension.

That is when the weather changes, so not all the time.

What can happen at any given moment and is not triggered by anything, is the nerve itching.

Ok. This is super weird.

Sometimes my arm itches. But wait, does it? Oh, yes. It does.

Must. Scratch. Itch.

Makes. No. Difference.

I could claw the skin off and the itch would remain. There is literally NO WAY to scratch that itch.

This morning as I was walking the kids to school, God used that itchy scar to show me something.

Here it is:

When we are wounded, we heal. But we have scars.

And those scars? They affect the way things work. I mean, I can feel you touching my arm, but it just doesn't feel right. 

But, HEY! I am not bleeding!

Good as new!?

Sometimes I think so!

Sometimes the scars work just like the skin would have; keeping my blood in and my muscle covered.

It's faded to where you can hardly see it anymore!

And then... it starts itching. And I know that it is healed, but that this is just going to be the way it is all of my life. That, no matter how pale the scar gets, it is still there.

Its very presence testifying to the brokenness that was thrust upon my life.

When I feel frustrated about the ebb and flow that undoubtedly come with parenting a child from hard places, I need to remember my 18-year-old itchy scar.

Yep.

Daniel gets to stay in his class.

I am very happy about that. It has come at a bit of a relational cost, I am afraid, but things have a way of smoothing out and I need to know and embrace the fact that I shouldn't be so worried about what other people think about me, especially in a situation like this one.

Isn't it ironic how we are worried about people thinking badly of us when we aren't thinking the best of them either?

Years ago, something happened at a family event and one of Garth's cousins had some very sage words: "He had the right to do the thing and you have the right to feel angry about it."

Why do we try and control our feelings and the feelings of our children to such a degree that we don't embrace them for what they are?  A natural response to a situation. We get irritated when someone doesn't respond the way that we envision. We lecture our children not to feel a certain way. We cajole our loved ones when they are feeling bad.

We drop bombshells on one another and then get irritated when someone is hurt.

Feelings are natural! They are NOTHING! I cannot control my feelings! I cannot control my children's feelings! I don't think any of us can (or should?!) get rid of that initial rush of emotion that we have at the moment. That is OK.

When we try to staunch feelings or try to dictate how a person should feel in a situation, we are grooming our tribe to be inauthentic. We are rearing them to question themselves over every little thing. We are raising children who will grow up into insecure adults.

Feelings should be validated. Not squashed.

Feelings shouldn't be wallowed in, either.

Well-managed feelings are things that you acknowledge, determine whether or not they are reasonable and then go from there into action.

I think the older I get and the more trials that I go through, the less time I have to worry about everyone else's opinions of me.

I have fought hard for Daniel.

I have traveled with my knees crammed into the seat in front of me, over oceans and continents. I have ridden on Soviet-era trains with the door locked on my compartment to keep out robbers. I have peed in a filthy hole in the floor. I have walked miles over broken sidewalks. I have spent the night wrestling with a feral child much like Jacob wrestled the angel and I, too, have come away changed. I have learned comfort and corrective phrases in a language not my own so that I could whisper those words over and over to calm a panicked child. I have prayed. I have cried. I have paid. I have gone to so many doctors appointments that words that would have scared me before make me chuckle now.

I have carried three children close to my heart and birthed them under bright lights through happy tears, and that experience empowered me to realize what my body was capable of; what my body was designed to do.

The processes of adoption and  of grafting a child into my family have taught me what my heart was capable of; what my heart was designed to do. The process of "birthing" my blue-eyed Daniel into this life that he now lives has made me into someone so much more than I was before. And through these struggles, he becomes more and more of my child.

When he is frustrated, his eyes search mine for the answers.

When he didn't want to change teachers and I told him I would fight for him, he trusted me.

When he opened his yap and said things that gave people the wrong idea, I made no excuses. Think what they will. We are a team.

Occasionally someone will verbalize that they can't imagine loving an adopted child like "their own" child. Tell me, how could I have labored any harder? How could I have spent any more tears?

No. I won't feel bad about Daniel being able to stay in his class.

Goosfraba

Have you ever been in a rage?

I am not talking about anger or seething or grumpiness.

The kind of RAGE where you see red?

I have had that happen maybe three or four times in my whole life.

One of those times was two weeks ago. I promise, if I had had a hatchet in my hands, there would have been a wake of destruction behind me. A pile of grey kindling where a house once stood. (Let me be clear, my situation was in no way related to school stuff).

With most of us, when that happens, we feel bad for a day or two. We try, in our head, to argue better, to come up with the right response that would stop the other person in their tracks. We plot fabulous revenge scenarios. And after a few days pass, we begin to let go. We chalk up the behavior of the other person to craziness or whatever makes us feel better, and we move on. (Although we may have some lingering retribution fantasies). We decide how, or if, we will interact with them in the future.

What if you couldn't let go? What if you were so full of anger and impotence and you had to see the person every day?

This is what Daniel is experiencing right now, so I'll tell you what will happen: the anger will rear its head over every little thing. Every straw will be the straw.

Daniel has a lot of frustration right now due to some situations at school, and it has definitely been a set back for him.

I have to remind myself of the ebb and flow of dealing with the yuck that he has come from. It just kind of stinks that there are still yucky situations happening.

The situation with the boy at the school isn't really improving. The school is wanting to separate the boys. I totally agree. It makes me really sad that the separation, seemingly, will cost Daniel the teacher that he loves.