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.

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.

Less Than Quality Time: The RAD Dilemma

            Raising children where quality time always ends in tears? This is my life. This is their lives. And maybe this is your life, too. I’d like to think that after 4 ½ years of living with me and my husband, I would be able to do JUST ONE activity with my kids without RAD showing up to join the party. But sadly, that is not our reality.

            I’ve noticed that I’ve been conditioned by their emotional outbursts to avoid quality time at all costs. It’s my survival mechanism. Now, as their mother, I obviously can’t do this. And as a therapist, I obviously know that I shouldn’t do this. However, deep inside, I know that if I engage with one or both of my older children doing something they’ve requested, inevitable tears or tantrums will follow. It somehow won’t be good enough, I won’t have helped both children “equally”, or their high expectations will be disappointed with my imperfect parenting performance.

            Therefore, I feel exhausted before we ever begin a craft, a Lego project, or a tent made out of blankets. I am often ready to quit by Step 1, even though being the Keeper of the Children, the one responsible for teaching them all these seemingly impossible things, doesn’t allow for me to be the one to quit.

            Here’s what I know about my kids and their Reactive Attachment Disorder issues:

1)      Self-sabotage is REAL and it shows up whenever we do anything that requires thought, creativity, talent, or social skills.

            All things that my children perceive they may fail at becomes an instant enemy… even if it’s something they, themselves, have chosen to do. A perfect example of this is my son. At 10-years-old, he has struggled to find his strengths in life. Sure, he brags to his friends that he can do this or that, and he tries to show off in the most awkward of ways, but in his heart, he believes he is a failure. So when we attempted to do a craft of his choosing this afternoon, he blew up within the first 3 minutes. After he “calmed down”, he then proceeded to work far below his capabilities on the rest of the activity. Finally, after I’d helped him and assured him that it was wonderful and that he is talented and that he is loved and ALL the things that he needs to hear each and every craft we do, he tossed his finished product into the trash.

           It is easier to sabotage their work than to try their hardest and others realize that they aren’t perfect.

2)      Sabotaging others is a definite, particularly if the other person is currently receiving praise or attention.

           This is the case with my children, 100% of the time. When one is accomplishing something and gaining praise from an adult, the other “accidentally” breaks the successful child’s trophy, art project, report card, or fort. Without fail, if one child tries and succeeds, the other child tries even harder to spoil their efforts.

            It feels better to know that someone else is miserable right along with them, even if they have to create the misery themselves.

 3)      The more love they’re given, the more they believe they are unloved.

           I know, it makes no sense, but it’s true. When my children are given any amount of extra attention, it somehow serves as a mirror to their pasts – reflecting back to them any other moment when they felt betrayed, cast off, or unwanted. So, the more I cheer at a swim meet or gymnastics event, the less my children try – the defeat dripping off them with slumped shoulders, frowns, and all-out quitting. Immediately following a good report card, I am constantly peppered with self-deprecating statements such as, “I know you like her better, don’t you? Just admit it!” or “I’m stupid and you know it. That’s why you wish you never would’ve adopted me.”

 Believing they are unlovable is easier than believing they’re capable of being loved.

Photo by http://www.fathers.com/s5-your-situation/c18-divorced-dad/rj-jaramillo/

           Parenting a child with RAD often means choosing not to get overly excited when they do something well in order to prevent the self-sabotage.

           It means celebrating holidays and birthdays with minimal excitement or stimulation in order to prevent tantrums.

           It means keeping my own emotions level, even when I want to show excitement, grief, anger, or happiness during basic life events. I do this in order to keep them from ruining the moment with their need to try to mimic my emotions inappropriately or, worse, act out behaviorally so that the attention is back on them.

           It means loving them carefully, almost so they don’t know they’re slowly being loved and the self-deprecation can’t take over.

           It means making myself still build forts and Lego constructions and art projects, despite knowing that it will likely end in disaster.

           It means preparing for fall-out when a stranger compliments one of my children and not the other.

           It means gluing together all the broken things that were ruined by a jealous and insecure sibling.

           It means choosing the days wisely – picking quality activities on days with enough time to also deal with the following melt-downs.

           It means looking at other families and being envious that they get to go on vacations and holidays and day trips – jealous that they get to enjoy their children, not just survive them.

           And it means saying “I love you” even when it will be returned with “No you don’t.”

           Parenting a child with RAD means writing blog posts and hoping that someone else out there will say, “Yes! Me, too!” and that we can be a reminder that we’re just doing our best – trying to love and teach kids that don’t always know how to accept our offerings. Because at the end of the day, we actually aren’t responsible for their successes or their failures. We are only judged on our own actions and efforts – our choices to build the forts and create the weird-looking art projects that would NEVER be shared on Pinterest. We are accountable only for our love, not theirs.

           And parenting a child with RAD means building up those walls of support, speaking those words of encouragement, providing those breaths of fresh air to our fellow parenting Warriors.

We love. And that is enough.

To All Parents Everywhere Who Hate Summer Vacation

           My kid has ADHD.  My kid has RAD.  My kid has ANY mental health disorder.  My kid has a sibling and those siblings won’t stop bickering EVER.  My kid has an indoor voice of a megaphone.  My kid has the attention span of a gnat.  My kid is impulsive and needs to be watched 24/7 to ensure the safety of ALL THINGS.  My kid wakes up at 7:30am for school and 5:00am for EVERY FREAKING DAY of summer vacation.  My kid expects me to make each meal and snack with fairy dust and unicorn tears.  My kid is “BORED”.

            If any of these statements ring true to you, then just let yourself say these words: “I hate summer vacation with a passion, and that DOESN’T make me a bad parent.”

            Ok?  Feel better?  Of course not, because it’s still summer vacation.  But here’s the thing… you’re allowed to love your children and still wish for them to be out of your presence for 8 straight waking hours.  I don’t know when this Mom-Shaming thing became such a societal duty, but I was a fairly typical, well-behaved, non-psychotic child, and my parents STILL locked me out of the house with a bottle of water and 3 hours worth of sunscreen greased over my face and neck.

            How, exactly, does needing to clean the house, do your work, and keep your sanity equate to being a bad parent?  I refuse to apologize that the thought of taking all 3 of my insane children to my gynecologist appointment scares the living crap out of me.  Nor will I say sorry for hating grocery day during the summer.  All the complaints over vegetables, all the pleading for junk food, all the chasing one another down random isles…. Seriously, what’s not to love, right?

            For all of you who enjoy your children all day, every day, I commend you and your patience.  You are beautiful people on the inside.  But I don’t think it makes anyone an ugly person if they don’t enjoy those moments with the same level of enthusiasm (AKA disgust).  So why point fingers?  Why feel guilty over needing to accomplish your own tasks in life without 2,358 interruptions?  Why engage in jealousy over your neighbors’ apparently perfect lives?  (PS, your neighbors’ scream, too… they just have better insulation in their home than you do.)

Photo by www.dailymail.co.uk

            Yesterday was the kids’ last day of school.  It was a half-day.  That sucks already, right?  Because before my daughter’s shoes were even off her feet, she was petitioning someone to entertain her.  I told her that there were 4 walls just begging to keep her company if she was that desperate, and we call those walls Her Room.  Naturally, she was less than impressed with my humor.

            So, in order to keep the children occupied, my husband gave them yard work.  And before you Parent-Shamers gasp that we didn’t take our children to the park and for ice cream on their last day of school, know that I simply don’t care.  There.  I said it. 

But anyways, when I had finished my indoor cleaning (which consisted of picking up EVERY THING that had ever been in my children’s rooms or book bags that was now on my living room floor), I took the toddler outside for some sunshine.  And just as I looked over, there was my 10-year-old RAD son, having my 8-year-old RAD daughter hold a stake while he attempted to drive it into the ground.  WITH AN AXE.

            Tell him not to use the axe?  Sure.  Hide the axe in the locked garage?  Yeah.  Already done that.  A LOT.  But here’s the things about some children (especially those with RAD):  They don’t listen.  It’s shocking, I know, because it’s so much easier to blame the parents.  But as my son was coming down towards my daughter’s head with the sharp blade, I screamed as loudly as I could (over the weed-whacker, over the tractor, over the barking dogs) and my son simply said, “Oh, sorry.”

            We were 6 hours into summer vacation and I was already DONE.

            One hour later, I was being yelled at by two very ballsy children because one’s headband was destroyed and the other’s arrow was busted… items that were left in the yard or on the floor where the dogs and toddler play.  It was then, after hearing them argue for hours and the attempted manslaughter incident, that I calmly screamed at the top of my lungs that THEY were the ones responsible for their broken items – not the person who had spent the afternoon following them around cleaning up after them because we had company coming over!

            Not that they would be deterred.  This morning they have been equally as angelic.  My 8-year-old has turned into a diva, apparently.  No longer does she yell “STOP!” to my son, when he does all he can to tick her off.  No.  Now she does this lovely little number: “STOP-AAA!!!” (complete with eye-rolling and her hip jutted out).  Like we live in the Valley and she’s 14.  Like I’m going to listen to that all summer long without cutting out her tongue.

            And my son, who touches EVERYTHING that is not his on a minute-by-minute basis, creating contraptions with Dad’s tools, unsafe climbing apparatuses, and breaking apart the toddler’s toys to make “new ones”, he thinks that I’m going to allow this to go on for 3 straight months.  Like he’s Bob Villa or something.

            So, once again, I will say it loud and clear:

            I hate summer vacation with a passion, and that DOESN’T make me a bad parent!

My Circus, My Monkeys

After another Mother’s Day fail this year, I found myself on the hosting end of a world-class pity-party.  It’s been 5 years now and each holiday has its shares of ups and downs.  There are usually tantrums, tears, screaming, and breaking things – peeling of paint, peeing on something, hurting a sibling.  But Mother’s Day is always the one holiday that takes the cake.

The first year, it was my fault.  Cameron and Taylor had only been living with us for 6 weeks at that time, and my excitement of finally being able to celebrate the holiday as a foster mother had gotten the better of me.  That was the year of the fecal smearing.  I’ll never forget it.  That specific day soured my plans for the following holiday’s celebrations.  Needless to say, the next year was a fighting disaster, filled with hate and more broken items.  As was the year after that and the next. 

However, this year, we’d made it through Thanksgiving with miraculous calm, and Christmas had only its minor bouts of crazy that came into play.  So, in a moment of weakness, I allowed myself to imagine this Mother’s Day as being a turning point – something spectacular and lovely.  In my delusion, I ignored the warning signs.

Earlier this week, my son’s disrespect for women hit epic proportions, which got him kicked out of my vehicle at the end of our driveway and sent back to our house (accompanied by screaming that resulted in my neighbors sending me concerned text messages).  Cameron also took it upon himself to get into my make-up and set his sister up to take the fall.  (It took many days and many lies before we got to the bottom of this one!)  And both children had taken it upon themselves to use their grandmother’s Wi-Fi to look up inappropriate materials.  Again, lies.  Again, blaming.  Again, fervent promises that it wasn’t them.

The night before the over-anticipated holiday, Taylor threw up ALL OVER the living room – as if she'd had a full-on exorcist moment and managed to spray the entire room with rancid bile.  My husband and I cleaned it up and sent our daughter back to bed with a puke bucket before we all turned in for the night.  At 6:30am, Wyatt, who has been suffering with a horrible cold, coughed so hard that he threw up ALL OVER me, himself, and our bed.

You guys, it was in my hair. (Because curly-haired girls don’t have enough problems to deal with.)

I plunked Wyatt down on the shower floor and cleaned us both off as best I could.  Struggling to shave my legs while the toddler banged his toy train repeatedly off my knee-caps, I gave up and just prayed that no one noticed the stubbly places I’d missed.  Besides, my stomach was starting to feel a little fishy, as well, so I figured bruised knees and hairy patches were the least of my worries.

Once I was clean, my husband gave me a beautiful Mother’s Day card, and I noticed that everyone had signed their names and written me a special message… everyone except for Cameron.  My son was apparently ticked off that no one would tell him what to write to me, so he sloppily scrawled his name and slapped the card down without care.

It’s the lack of thought that counts, really.

Pat stayed home with the sick baby while I went to church with our older two.  We were there for 2 minutes before Taylor started screaming and crying over something her brother had done.  But I couldn’t be bothered by that, because at that moment I was being informed of events that had occurred during my daughter’s play-date the previous day.  Events that drained me of my energy, brought up lies that I’m the worst mom on the planet, and that left me with umpteen phone calls to make the following day.

And worse yet, she showed absolutely no remorse for her actions when my husband and I addressed them with her later that day.  The only tears she shed were when she was told she was going to stay in her room while her brothers got to go to Grandma’s house.  Then the tears came.  She screamed for nearly 3 hours over the unfairness of life.

I spent Mother’s Day #5 feeling sick, being puked on, dealing with bad attitudes and tantrums, and listening to a child scream for hours instead of feeling sorry for her actions that have devastating repercussions.

So, when I say I had a pity-party, I mean I crawled into my bed, turned on re-runs of Law & Order: SVU (loudly, as to drown out the screaming from downstairs), and I cried bitter tears that I didn’t even have the energy to wipe away.  And since I was already a wreck, I allowed myself to watch videos on my phone of Isaac, my lost little love, who pains my heart each day - but especially today.  It was my 1st Mother’s Day without him, and every inch of me was agonizingly aware.

All I kept thinking was that if I was in Walmart or someplace in public, I could look at a mother struggling with her children and think to myself “Not my circus, not my monkeys.”  I would be able to walk from the store without giving that woman another thought.  Not that I wouldn’t care for her situation, but since it’s not my responsibility, I would be able to sleep that night in peace.

Picture by redditlurker.com

But this is my circus.  And these children are my monkeys.  And I’m aware that Mother’s Day doesn’t necessarily need to be all about me and celebrating all the wonderful things I’ve done as a parent… because quite honestly, I’ve been reactionary and sucking it up in the parenting department pretty regularly these past few weeks. 

Additionally, I know in my head that traumatized children often take out their frustrations on their mothers (biological, foster, or adoptive).  I’ve read the studies.  Heck, we ARE the studies.

My family is not your circus.  And I’m the one responsible for when my monkeys get loose and wreak havoc on the community, not you.  But for those of you who have chosen to surround our broken cages with love and support… I cannot begin to thank you enough.  For your kindness, your prayers, your understanding, your forgiveness – these are the things that help me feel that I am truly not alone.

And next time I’m in Walmart, I will be specifically looking for that Mama.  I will walk up to her, smile, and tell her that she’s amazing.  It may not help her sleep at night, but she too, will know that she’s not alone.

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