What To Do When There's Nothing Left To Give

In life, we get many choices. One of those choices is if we want to be “all in” or not. We decide how much effort we are willing to exert based on the priority of needs we are presented with. Some people may choose to give 50% of themselves in any given circumstance. And I don’t judge those people. Not anymore. It is the Halfers that are capable of self-preservation – protecting those vulnerable, deep down parts by not giving their all.

Halfers know that by risking all they have, they could also lose everything. They weigh the pros and cons, list the checks and balances, and move on accordingly. This particular group knows how to hold back when necessary. They’re capable of watching as things that don’t work out roll somewhat easily off their shoulders. They’re able to rebound with speed and at least half of their reserved strength.

These people are survivors.

And then in life, there’s a second group – the group that makes the choice to go 200% in. The Doublers. These people are the ones that aim for the stars instead of the clouds. They give all of themselves in all of their exhibitions. When things go well, they double their strength and fly high until the next time they lose. And when they lose, they are left with nothing. They are broken and exhausted. There is no hidden reserve of care or energy, no speedy bounce back. Recovery is long and it is dreary and it is awful.

Doublers fight to the death, give away their last slice of bread despite their own hunger, and sweat blood. There is no self-preservation – no bodily armor to protect them as they live each day.

Doublers are not survivors.

I have no idea which category you fall into. You’re probably like most people… individual circumstances allow you to choose which team you will play for.

Grocery-shopping? Halfer. Math homework? Doubler. Making time with friends? Budgeting money? Resolving spousal conflicts? Your own personal health?

You see, there are no rights or wrongs. You pick your battles and choose to accept the consequences. Most of us tend to go halfsies on the smaller matters in our lives and double up on the main events, am I right?

Except here’s the problem. Sometimes, everything in life seems to be a main event. Sometimes, everything requires 200% of us. There are some of you reading this right now who feel that you are gambling so much of yourself that the consequences may even prove fatal. The risks are too great and you have no idea if you will survive.

Let me explain what a Doubler’s lifestyle may look like when everything requires them to be all in:

You are raising a special needs child. You are caring for aging parents. You are a work at home AND work out of the home parent. You have more bills than you have paycheck. You or someone in your immediate family has a life-altering health concern and doctor’s appointments are a full-time job. Your career is in a field that requires you to care for the physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health of other(s). You are married. You are single. You have a hormonal or mental health imbalance. Your children outnumber the adults in your home. You have therapies, sports, early intervention, Bible study, something that needs to be baked for charity, laundry that hasn’t been done in weeks, lab work, vet appointments, meetings, and grocery shopping all in the same day because you CANNOT serve ketchup and crackers with canned fruit 2 meals in a row.

Have I described you yet? Are you sitting there saying to yourself, Oh my gosh, I’m Doubling on EVERYTHING because there is simply no other choice! If you are, then you know you are playing Russian Roulette with your own sanity. You’re driving full-speed at a brick wall, believing that it can and hopefully will move. You’re holding onto a breaking heart so tightly, fearful of losing even just one small piece.

I know this because I, too, am a Doubler. Sure, I’ll go halfway when I can. When the house is only somewhat deplorable and I’m sorta sure we’ve got enough money in the account to put gas in the car… and even then, maybe I’ll only put in a few bucks, just to be safe.

But everything in life… it all feels so important. There’s so little that I can lay aside or put on the back burner. My kids with their mental illnesses, I can’t half that. My son with his kidney disorder and all the things that trigger it, that has to get my all. My advocacy for a foster child that was taken from me and placed into an abusive situation – how could I ever do only 50%? My husband, my church, my clients, the finances, my health, our family… who gets cut?

And what do we do when there’s nothing left to give?

I have faced this same dilemma so very many times. Because all the things in my life deserve more than all that I can give. And that is how I know that Doublers are not survivors.

They are world changers.

For every person that finds themselves so close to the fire that they can feel the heat burning their skin…

For every person who battles to the death for a cause that is noble or to save the ones they love…

For every person willing to lay themselves on the line in order to keep another life going…

You may be too exhausted to see it, but you’re changing someone’s world.

If you fought to keep your wits about you when your child was screaming in your face, when you hold the hand of someone as they lay dying in a hospital bed, if you never stop loving even when you’re being thrown through the wringer – then you are changing the world.

I know you’re tired, friend. So am I. I’m so tired it hurts. But take comfort in this:

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this world’s darkness, and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore take up the full armor of God, so that when the day comes, you will be able to stand your ground – and having done everything, to stand.”  Ephesians 6:12-13

Picture from Central Christian Church

This is not just another spiritual cliché. I’m not here to boost anyone up with feel good words and fluffy analogies. But when your child is in your face, remember that it’s not him that you’re battling. And when you’re holding your loved ones hand as they near death, it is not their spirit that is dying. And when you’ve loved with your whole heart and feel that it’s been given back to you time and again, wounded and shattered… then you know you have done everything. You have doubled up, given all that you could, and fought against all that is wrong until you’ve taken your last step.

And when you can go no further, just stand.

Because the key to changing the world is doing all that you can, then stepping aside and allowing God to finish the fight.

Be a Halfer when you can, be a Doubler when you must, and rest in God always.

If any of this hits home with you and you're looking for some extra support, click here to read about joining the Mommyhood: Striving for Sanity Membership Program.

In My Heart - Always Four

Words can’t describe it, but sometimes I awaken in the night with a smile on my face. The smile comes from a faraway dream, one in which I was running my fingers gently through your curls or tracing your nose and lips in a way that only a mother can. In those foggy moments between sleep and awake, I listen to you tell me stories while I calmly rock you back and forth as I had a thousand times before. I dream that you laugh, that you run to me, that you remember me.

And then, as dawn wakes me from my sleep, I realize that you aren’t really here. My smile leaks from my eyes and down my cheeks, bittersweet memories making me wish I could close my eyes forever. Because when I am awake, I am reminded that I have not seen you face in a year - that I have not heard your laugh and your lispy words since that fated day last September. Your wailing pleas to stay with me were the last you uttered, and I failed you. I wasn’t able to let you stay. And little did we know that we would never see you again.

The pain that you may think I don’t love you, that I left you in your dire circumstances, is often more than I can bear. And yet thinking that you don’t remember me at all, well… that’s my own selfish fear. Yet I would rather you to have forgotten all of our memories if it meant that you were safe, that you were happy - that you were truly loved.

If I knew you were healthy and that there was nothing to fear for your future, I would gladly awaken to those tears each day. I would comfort your siblings with ease. I would hold your other Daddy without quite as much pain. But I don’t know those things. And my children don’t. And my husband doesn’t. We are tormented with the constant knowledge that you are so close, and yet we are helpless to save you.

I have given myself over to the fact that there are others that will never understand this loss. Many have reminded me, so innocently, that I chose this. I chose to foster. That I should have expected you to leave. But what I choose is to forgive their words. I know that they don’t understand what you go through, what you’ve seen. I know they have no idea the pain you’ve endured and how that pain has affected our family, as well.

They couldn’t possibly know. And then there are others who say that we should “move on, already”… like we are capable of pretending your existence wasn’t real – or treat you as if you are no longer alive and grieve you in a way that is impossible. But again, I choose to forgive because I know that those words are spoken as an attempt to ease our suffering – knowing that people are trying to help, even if they don’t know how.

I remember the day that I told a stranger how many children I had. For so long, I had four kids. It didn’t matter their status. Adopted, Foster, Pre-Adoptive, Biological – they were just terms that confused others. But there I was, in line at the grocery store. A woman told me how well-behaved my two kids were that had come to the store with me that day.

“How many children do you have?” she’d asked simply.

For months I had said four. I couldn’t bear to discount you, as if your lack of presence meant you no longer mattered in our family line-up. But on that day, the sadness was more than I could explain. And honestly, I know that she didn’t need to hear my story. She just wanted to buy her groceries and go home. And so I answered in words that sit clearly in my memory to this day.

“Three. I have three kids.”

I remember the look my daughter gave me as she tried to contradict my answer. I swiftly spoke over her and made quick conversation with the woman until it was time to take my bags and leave. Once in the van, I had to explain to a sobbing girl that WE still counted you in our family, but that others wouldn’t understand our story. I told her that we left you out of the equation for the ease of those around us.

But today, on the anniversary of your loss, I will not leave you out. I am aware that so many will read this – a handful will cry, some will offer words of condolences, and even more will interject more words of “let it go” and “you’re still struggling with this?”

But today is not about any of the readers. Just as we honor Memorial Day or September 11th, celebrating lives that were lost and allowing ourselves to sit with our grief without trying to brush it away to appease daily life, today is not about them.

Today is about you, sweet boy. It’s about you, and me, and Daddy, and Brother, and Sissy, and Wyatt. It’s about remembering you, whether it’s with laughter or with tears. Whatever emotion comes, I will face it and so will my children and my husband. We will look at your photos and watch home videos, sharing your memory and praying for your safety. And tomorrow, our “holiday” will be over, despite waking up with smiles that turn to tears as usual. And we will wipe the tears and go about our days, acknowledging you silently and lovingly as we pass your pictures on the wall.

But don’t mistake our silence. For you will never be forgotten, my child. You will always be one of us – one of my four.

I love you forever and always.

Mama

If Mom Ran For President

           The year 2016 will go down in history as one of the strangest and most controversial presidential elections of all time. I think it’s safe to say that, no matter which party you support, our country as a whole kinda looks like it’s playing a twisted game of Would You Rather…

            You remember the game from childhood, right?

            “Would you rather eat boogers dipped in gasoline or pluck out 10 nose hairs every minute for an entire day?”

           “Would you rather remove your own cornea with a rusted fork or pull off each of your fingernails with a pair of pliers?”

           “Would you rather chew on a ball of someone else’s hair for all eternity or have to dress like a member of Kiss for every formal function you’re invited to for the rest of your life?”

           Yeah, so that’s basically my take on politics… a big game of Would You Rather. So, instead of being bitter, I decided to create a new democratic party. The Mom Party.

           The Mom Party is a fantastic mix of all the other parties, minus all the stupid name-calling, lying, and cheating… because we all know our Moms would ground us for that kind of crap. And in honor of my newfound political aspirations, I decided to take a look at 20 of the most popular debates over the past several years and solve all the world’s problems, Mom Style.

           PS, for those who think women shouldn’t be allowed to run for president because we’d be “too emotional”, know that we wipe butts, don’t need a chauffeur, decipher daily lies, and sleep standing up… we don’t have time for emotions. And we’d do the job for free. Beat that.

           If Mom Ran For President – The Important Topics:

1)      Tough on Crime: Heck yeah, we’d be tough on crime! I’ve broken up more fights over senseless crap than the entire LAPD, and I don’t even get back-up, NOR do they let me carry a Taser. Ground the criminals to their rooms and don’t even let them think about asking for snack!

2)      Abortion: I firmly believe that a mother should only be allowed to kill her child after that child is born. (Too far? Too far. See Torture below.)

3)      Animal Rights: Yes. To all the animals that my children will ever see, the answer is Yes. We are practically running a zoo anyways, so every stray, missing-limbed, scraggly, flea-infested creature is basically welcome. We do not discriminate.

4)      Drug Legalization: Wait, for my kids or for me?? Ok, so for Moms, we should get coupons that reduce our co-pays for all anxiety medication. In fact, scratch that. We should get CASH BACK for taking our medications like good girls. And for our kids? After a birthday party, I would legalize Benedryl… you know, to help wean them off the hard stuff (ice cream and cake), but for recreational use, Melatonin should do the trick.

5)      Affirmative Action: I’m sorry, but there ain’t no one getting special permissions in this house over here. Whatever your race, gender, or favorite color, EVERYONE is scrubbing a toilet and taking garbage out for the same allowance, PERIOD.

6)      Homeschooling: Oh my gosh, NO! I mean, that should be left up to each individual household but, still… oh my gosh, just… No.

7)      Building a Wall: Only if we make the children build it. Heck, tire them out! Let them build it as high as they want, paint it crazy colors, and then just MAYBE they’ll sleep a solid 8 hours each night!

8)      Torture: Definition = Parenting. If they’re allowed to do it to us, shouldn’t we be allowed to do it to them? Well, I guess if we’re being presidential and all, perhaps we should limit it to only when it’s absolutely necessary… like when you have to figure out who broke the television and neither child will spill the beans.

9)      Term Limits: Yes. 18 years, MAX. Then, it’s time to help little Johnny find a house, apartment, nice van by the river, whatever. No matter how much he begs to stay and even “pay rent”… I mean, what can we do? It’s the law!

10)  Common Core: Burn it. Burn all the books, all the lesson plans, all the “studies”. Light the fire and I’ll provide the gasoline. Mothers of the world who have to help their children with homework while they cry and scream, You’re Welcome.

11)  Social Programs: Ok, so yeah… there definitely needs to be more. Like one where Moms can go to socialize with other adults and they’re not allowed to wear make-up, bring diaper bags, or talk about their children. Oh, and they can’t look good in yoga pants. BYOC (Bring Your Own Chocolate).

12)  Minimum Wage: For crying out loud, leave it where it is. I’m not raising allowances so my kids get MORE money for haphazardly taking out the trash and shoving their toys under their beds. And I’m certainly not giving them the chance to purchase even MORE toys that require batteries… because then we’d just need another social program that provides batteries in bulk to families across the globe. No raise. Problem solved.

13)  Gun Rights: My children are crazy so guns are gonna have to be limited to Nerf and Water. I will allow special permits for hunting video games if your child really feels the need to start killing things… but then again, maybe we need to go back to Social Programs on this one.

14)  Death Penalty: This should be reserved only for waking up Mom in the middle of the night for a non-emergent reason. If there’s not blood, puke, an intruder, or an asthma attack, know that you will be shanked on site.

15)  Going Green: I’ll be as organic as I can afford (I AM willing to run the country for free, if you do recall). I’ll turn off the faucet while I brush my teeth and I’ll recycle as much as I can. But just TRY to enforce kids shutting off lights when they leave a room. I dare you. We would have to increase our military spending to do so, and I’m pretty sure that the people would revolt.

16)  Free Trade: Uh, NO. It leads to Indian giving and “No Take Backs” being screamed at volumes that make my head split in half. There will be no trading, ever. Eat the sandwich that was packed by your own parents, I don’t care if it’s tuna fish on rye!

17)  Internet Censorship: This is obviously a must. There are too many crazy people out there putting crazy things on the internet just waiting for my crazy children to happen upon it. Minecraft Only, thank you very much.

18)  War on Terror: Daily. It’s called Motherhood.

19)  National Health Care: I feel it’s only humane to give Band-Aids to any child that’s bleeding, not just my own. And I will pull a sliver out of any finger, hold back the hair of any puker, and give an ice pack to any bumped noggin. But I will not give out my Epi Pen… that’s basically gold and ain’t no one affording that anymore!

20)  Changing the Constitution: I would like to add just a few amendments here, please.

A) We the people have the right to sleep for 6 hours each night…

B)  To use the restroom in peace…

C) To go to the store ALONE…

D) To shave both legs in the same shower…

E) And to pray that our children will one day rise up and call us blessed.

"As President of the United States of America, I promise to train my children to be productive citizens, I promise to hold other parents accountable when they are faltering and to lift them up when they are struggling. I promise to show love indiscriminately and, when necessary, let the punishment fit the crime. I would honor and respect each and every parent out there, knowing that they’re doing their best and that they probably just need a nap."

Because after all, shouldn’t we always want a Mom for the job?

Photo by https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GlwUPNS12iU

 #VoteMom2016

Redefining Greatness

           Each summer, I have high hopes of achieving greatness in motherhood. And each fall I realize that greatness is highly overrated. Sometime in August I become very okay with mediocrity and the whole “just keep them alive” method of parenting. (It’s okay to judge me if you must. I’m far too tired to care anyway.)

            I start out the summer being a “Yes” Mom. I tell the kids they can have the second popsicle, that they can use the playdough without supervision, that they can stay up late to catch fireflies. And by August I am back to my “No” Mom self, swiftly denying all access to Dad’s tools, things that require all of my batteries, nail polishes/paints/anything that stains, and all things that are sugar-based.

            I’m unsure why I feel that each June will be different than the last – that my children will have matured magically in the previous 9 months, that they won’t fight incessantly, or that they won’t suck my love for summer away once again. But each summer I test out my re-found optimism, only to realize that it doesn’t quite fit in with me and my special needs family. Because in a home filled with our specific kind of nuts, we don’t have the strength for continual optimism.

            No, in our home, we have roles that we hold tightly to – ones that don’t allow for much deviation from out callings. We have myself, The Enforcer – I’m the rule-setter, consequence-maker, and death-glarer. We have my husband, The Worker – the one that is gone all day and then gets to play with our spawn, giving him the extra title of The Fun One. Then there’s my oldest, The Bully. He’s the one that taunts, teases, and pinches the minute my back is turned. But its okay, because my next oldest is The Tattler, also known as The Instigator. She is the reporter of all things (necessary or not), the one that loves to hear her own voice, and the little shadow that begs to be pinched so she has something else to tattle about. And finally, we have The Toddler. He’s 2, he tantrums, and he’s supposed to be my “normal one”.

            Yeah, optimism is quickly replaced by realism each and every summer. But before you think we are too pessimistic for your taste, let me give you a glimpse into one particularly warm July day…

            The Toddler woke promptly at 6am, ensuring that he could start his energetic throwing of toys before the heat became too great. But hey, since he wasn’t throwing the toys at the dogs or the television, I continued to pay bills and do laundry before the Bigs woke up… which was naturally 20 minutes later. The rest of the morning was spent reminding children to do their morning routine, the very same routine they’ve been doing every day for years. I stared at their shocked faces when they were informed that yes, indeed, their underwear needed to be changed every day. For always.

            We did daily homework assignments to ensure that no one became stupid over the summer… this meant that I spent an hour arguing with The Tattler that 10 +23 does not equal 1023, all the while The Bully wailed that he couldn’t understand his story problem: “Billy had 18 apples and gave Tommy 6. Tommy then gave 3 apples to Judy. How many apples does Tommy now have?” Meanwhile, The Toddler ate all the crackers and screamed every time a commercial interrupted his Paw Patrol marathon.

            We finally finished all the assignments and my bills got paid (sort of) so we promptly got ready for The Tattler’s library program that morning. Only, where was my phone? I had it earlier while I did the banking, but where was it now? No worries… we found it a half hour later… in the refrigerator, courtesy of The Toddler.

            We were the family running into the library drenched in sweat, A) because we have no air conditioner and B) because we are incapable of attending any library program on time. I don’t know why and I no longer have the motivation to care. I handed my middle child over to the sweet ladies in charge as I avoided the irritated glances at their watches. The Bully began looking for a new book while The Toddler attached himself to a handful of cars at the train table.

            I sat anxiously, waiting for the inevitable tantrum that The Toddler throws each and every time we enter the library. It’s the place where he had his first injury (last summer, banged lip off the train table, bled all over their carpet), where we screamed bloody murder in the bathroom for ALL to hear (two summers ago, while trying not to smack his head off the toilet paper holder as I had to nurse him in the bathroom because I was asked not to nurse him in the children’s section), and where he continues to dominate all the toys because by being the baby of the family, it’s basically survival of the fittest.

            That day was no different. I watched in slow motion as my small child grabbed a toy away from a sweet little boy with Down’s Syndrome. The boy tried to get his toy back, but my child in turn hit him with the toy. It was like I was moving through jello, unable to run through the sea of scattered toys fast enough, when the other boy began to scream a high-pitched wail that was not only warranted, but appreciated (because, hey, it wasn’t my kid screaming for a change).

            I promptly grabbed up The Toddler, apologizing profusely as I handed my purse off to my oldest. I ran my now-screaming baby out to the parking lot as he hit and kicked, flapped and hollered. Outside it was a balmy 831 degrees and my child’s sweat was making it impossible to hold him as he raged. And, as I fought to control a person 1/4th my size in the public library’s parking lot, a police officer pulled up alongside me.

            “Everything okay, ma’am?” he asked with concern.

            Sweat dripping into my eyes, making my hair stick to my running make-up, I tried to smile as I responded, “Oh, of course! Just a bit of a toddler tantrum is all!” I made a slight attempt at a chuckle, but it ended up coming out as more of a maniacal laugh than anything.

            Twenty minutes and a two walks around the block, The Toddler was still being a jerk, but it was time to go in and claim my daughter from her program. It was then that I looked down and noticed that, amidst the struggle with my youngest, my wide-necked t-shirt somehow had managed to be pulled all the way down, underneath my left boob. I had talked with our local law enforcement and walked two blocks with my one of my breasts completely hanging out. (And no, I didn’t feel a breeze, thanks to my super unattractive full-coverage mom bra.)

            Defeated and repositioned, I threw my kid over my shoulder and marched through the library to claim The Tattler. The sweet librarians once again eyed me with fear because my child’s screaming was interrupting their announcements. I forced a smile and said something clever like, “Kids, what do ya do, right?” before grabbing all of my children and running-not-running for the door.

            We arrived home just in time for The Toddler to take a nap, which means that he pulled his weenie out and peed through his crib like a boss just before drifting off. But I didn’t care. The pee would still be there when he woke up and there was no way that I was going to wake him to change his sheets. So I turned the fan on him in an attempt to dry up some of the wetness, like any mediocre, realist mom would do.

            I came back down the stairs to see The Bully pinning down his sister as he wrenched her arm behind her back. Grabbing him up by the scruff and then swatting his bottom, I sent him immediately to his room. The Tattler proceeded to tell me that her brother had just pinned her on the ground and wrenched her arm behind her back. (Yes, thank you for stating the obvious. Would you care to do any other work for my eyes, like tell me the color of the walls or describe to me my own outfit?) But because I still had just a smidgen of Good Mom still in me, I refrained from the sarcasm and reminded her that I had just taken care of the issue, assessing her arm as we talked.

            It was then that I noticed the dog poop on the floor. Just because of life.

            Meanwhile, The Toddler was awakened from his nap by a mooing Bully who refused to calm himself down. Not that it mattered, because we had a church event to leave for and there was still the whole pee incident happening upstairs in the crib.

            All bodily secretions sufficiently cleaned, we managed to make it to the church on time. Naturally The Toddler proceeded to push down another baby in our church and scream at the top of his lungs when redirected. To keep the peace, I put him in the nursery's pack-n-play for a time-out. However, The Tattler proceeded to inform me that I was a bad mother for just leaving him to cry without getting him out. At that point, I gave her one of my infamous death glares, reminding her that she was insanely out of line and should probably keep her well-researched parenting advice to herself.

            The Bully sulked in the corner and refused to talk to anyone, The Tattler cried for being glared at, and The Toddler’s screams could still be heard 3 rooms away. It was then that a sweet friend of mine from out church mentioned that I should get my youngest checked for autism.

            Tears welled in my eyes, not at the thought that my son could have autism, but at the fact that I had already asked his pediatrician this very question and was assured that he was completely NOT autistic – leaving 2 options: He was either a terrible child, or I was a terrible mother. Either way, the tears were there and I did my best to hold them at bay while I made small talk and acted like everything was fine.

            We left the event early because… well, because I have kids.

            Upon arriving home, I noticed that the temperature had cooled ever so slightly, so I told the kids to play outside. And as I stepped through the grass to set my purse on the patio, my foot got stuck in a hole that one of the dogs had dug and my ankle painfully rolled until I heard a snap. Since I was in my own yard and there was no sense in holding back anymore, I cried until I couldn’t breathe.

            Terrified, The Tattler ran inside and got me every ice pack we own. The Bully attempted to keep The Toddler from crawling on me like I was a jungle gym… because normal toddlers take crying as a call for playtime, apparently?

            My husband arrived home minutes later to me sitting in the yard with ice packs surrounding my swollen ankle. He saw my puffy eyes and listened as I told him about the library and my boob, the police and the wrenching of the arm, the poop and the pee, the church and the hole. I told him that I was a bad mother, incapable of achieving greatness.

            After sending me to my room to recover, The Worker/Fun One played with the kids in the yard. I heard them laughing and following directions. No one pinched or peed on anything. No one screamed or tattled. Everyone just played. In the distance I could hear a dog vomiting, but I didn’t go downstairs to clean it up. It would inevitably still be there in the morning.

            Two weeks later, I went on vacation with my kids, my parents, my brother and my nephew. I did a lot of sleeping and a lot of unwinding. The Toddler only peed on things twice and my parents took over when The Tattler and The Bully got into it. I relinquished my crown as The Enforcer for almost 9 days and found myself laughing with my children. I even got to be The Fun One a few times!

            So, as August has begun to wind us down to those last few moments of summer, I am okay with my mediocre status. I realize that it doesn’t make me a failure to not reach greatness each summer. It’s okay to say “No” and to hide the hammer and nails and to take naps when The Toddler finally goes down for his afternoon sleep. It’s okay to reclaim my batteries and make bedtime earlier. And it’s certainly okay to be The Fun One sometimes.

           But whatever the role, whatever the situation, whatever the daily liquids I get to scrub… I can rest easy, knowing that I kept them alive for one more summer. And that, my friends, is greatness redefined.

When Bio Parents Die

           In the world of adoption, there are so many issues that parents and children face. Whether the parent is adoptive, foster, or biological, there are numerous decisions and issue to consider. Open versus closed adoption, visitation schedules, when or if to tell a child they were adopted, what information to share about biological parents and health histories are only a few in a sea of vast choices that families need to make, depending on their particular circumstances.

            My older two children were adopted out of the foster care system when they were 4- and 6-years-old. There was never any question they were adopted, as they had and still have vivid memories of their pasts. They are half-siblings, both sharing the same mother but having different fathers. My daughter knows nothing of her birth father – he was incarcerated at the time of her birth and signed rights over immediately. My son, Cameron, however, knew very much about his birth father.

            He knew the feel of the man’s belt on his back, legs, and bottom.  He knew the signs of drug use and saw first-hand the relentless torment that an addict can inflict on young children. He knew the fear of seeing his pets killed, having his house set on fire, and being abandoned in a hospital – left wondering if anyone would ever be back to pick him up. And he knew the terror of nightmares. Ones that still haunt him to this day, reminding him that he may never, in fact, be safe enough to dream like a regular boy.

            And now, my son knows the feeling of confusion. While perusing the online local newspaper, I came across the obituary of Cameron’s birth father. In a state of shock, I jumped up from my chair, my body unsure of where it was going exactly, only knowing that it could no longer stay in its previously seated position. My husband had taken the kids to a local fair and would be returning shortly. I called him instantly, making him aware of the situation. Together, we decided to tell Cameron and his sister the news when they arrived home.

            Although some may question our decision to inform our 10-year-old of such traumatic news, it was a choice we came to easily. Cameron may not mentally be up to speed with other children his age, due to all that stunted him in his earlier years, but he knows more about this sad world than most children ever should. In fact, just a few days prior to learning the news of his bio father’s passing, Cameron was in tears at the psychiatrist’s office, reporting continued nightmares and fears that his first dad will return in the night and try to kill him – revenge for reporting the abuse those 4 years ago.

            Because of Cameron’s Reactive Attachment Disorder, he often doesn’t process his feelings well. They get lost somewhere inside, convoluted by all the grief, all the loss, and all the unreliable adults he has known. Why should he feel safe expressing feelings, or even feeling them at all, for that matter, knowing that he did for 6 whole years before anyone cared to notice that he was hungry, that he was sick, and that he was being grossly mistreated.

            My husband and I sat both kids down at the kitchen table upon their arrival home. It was then that we told them the news we'd learned only an hour before. Wanting this to be a teachable moment for both of my children (as they both struggle with RAD), we talked about how it’s OK to feel more than one emotion at the same time. We talked about how it’s OK to feel sad, even though this man was associated with so many bad memories. We also talked about how it’s OK to feel relieved – happy, even – knowing that this man will never hurt another child again, and knowing that Cameron could now sleep easy.

            My son sat there, taking it all in. He went through a few of the grief stages right away, starting with denial. He hit on anger a bit, too. There was also sadness. Confused about this strange amount of biological loyalty suddenly appearing within him, he tried to brush it away before I reminded him that his first dad, although incredibly flawed, was also loved and created by God – the same God that loves and creates each of us. And to feel saddened by his death is very normal. And in the same breath, I told him that he could feel happy, as well. He was allowed to feel safe. Free. He was able to put the past to rest and find new dreams to occupy his sleep.

            Cameron and Taylor both peppered me with questions and a wide variety of emotions that evening. Cameron even went as far as to make me promise to read the obituaries religiously, just to make sure we don't miss it if his baby brother dies, the little boy that has been missing from out lives for nearly a year.  But what I wanted Cameron to see the most was the obituary itself. In the list of this man’s children was Cameron’s name.

            What you have to understand is that my son’s first family was very bitter that he caused them the inconvenience of all the court hearings that followed. Not only had they refused to attend the CYS-scheduled visits with him, but they refused to acknowledge his very presence at each hearing that followed. They would glare at him from across the courthouse lounge or lavish his sister with attention, ignoring my son completely when he would sheepishly try to say hello. They even went as far as to refuse to give CYS the family’s medical history, which has been a significant stumbling block as we’ve faced all the health scares with Cameron’s kidneys.

            And as he sat there, slowly reading through the many words he didn’t understand in his bio father’s obituary, he finally came to a name he knew. Seeing his own name in front of him, his head popped up suddenly.

            “They remember me? That means they don’t hate me anymore!” he said as tears slipped from beneath long eyelashes. He showed more emotion from the relief of simply being acknowledged than he did at the news of a close relative’s death. Because from the start, that’s what all children want. They want acknowledgement, assurance, care, and love. And from his first family, he didn’t get any of that. So, in one small gesture, a family that could have left his name out of the newspaper, chose to include my son and heal a small part of his heart – a part that I would never have been able to heal.

            I don’t know where this man stood with his Maker when he passed. Quite honestly, we had stopped praying for him a couple years back when Cameron made it quite clear that he didn’t want to do anything that would make him remember the man. And as time went on, he was only mentioned in therapeutic moments when being listed as a source of so much early childhood trauma.

           Also relieved at his passing, I am grateful to the writer of the obituary. I am overjoyed that Cameron was not passed by once again. And I do pray that this man, Cameron’s biological father, was able to find peace in God at the end.