Cody and the Hairy Thing

Cody and the Hairy Thing

            A dear friend asked me if I would be interested in reading two books written by her children.  Because I love reading and whole-heartedly support anyone pursing the art of writing, I immediately agreed.  And in doing so, I decided that I would read the books to my own kids, in order to get a younger perspective of the stories as well.

            Little did I know that this reading would turn into a bonding experience between me and my children.  Despite the busyness of the end of the school year, both my 8- and 10-year-olds would religiously remind me that we needed to “read that cool book!”

            It has to be said that neither of my children are big readers.  And even when I choose to read to them, their gnat-like attention spans take over and they can’t ever tell me anything that I’d just read to them.  In fact, I once read 4 chapters of a book before realizing that my son had been sleeping… with his eyes open.

            All of this to say, if my kids are excited about a book, then it HAS to be good!

            As an adoptive mom, I’m always looking for literature that helps reinforce a positive message to kids about finding their forever family, all the while reconciling their past grief and loss.  And in this first book, Cody and the Hairy Thing¸ young Briton Lafreniere has done just that.  At only 9-years-old, he penned an easy-to-read story filled with imagination, faith in Christ, and the importance of “finding one’s clan” in this life.

            Filled with moral dilemmas, a range of emotions, and difficult decisions that any grade school child may face, Lafreniere found a way to creatively inspire his peers to look to God, respect their parents, and follow their hearts - things that many of us parents are desperately trying to instill into our children at this vulnerable age. 

           When asked how they could relate to the characters in the book, my kids instantly shared a level of insight that is normally not present.  Cameron, my 10-year-old, said that he was taken from his family and placed with a new one, just like one of the story’s main players.  He revealed that he, too, felt a range of emotions, both happy and sad and scared, while we were all working to figure out this new life together.

            In turn, my 8-year-old daughter, Taylor, struggled to hold back tears as two main characters had to part from one another.  She shared that it reminded her of parting with her baby brother.  And for any parent looking for a story that allows for teachable moments, Cody and the Hairy Thing is chocked full of those very moments.  We were able to stop, process feelings, relate the scenarios to our own lives, and talk about how Cody, the boy in the story, may handle them.

            When all is said and done, I’m tired of having to proof everything that my kids are exposed to.  From the friends they choose to the music they listen to, the television shows they watch to the books they read (or are forced to read, in our case!).  And to find a story that didn’t require me to worry, that didn’t need me to monitor, and that inspired my own children to be interested in readingAND writing?  To me, this was a blessing too great not to share.

            I hope that every parent out there supports this young author, purchases his book, and sits back as your own child steps into the imaginative world of Cody and the Hairy Thing.

Cody and the Hairy Thing

By Briton Lafreniere

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!

No More Hanky Panky EVER

            “Mom,” said my 10-year-old son from the backseat of our mini-van, “I heard really weird noises last night while I was trying to sleep.

            I was only half-listening if we’re being honest.  After all, I spend my days being informed of every bug bite, loose tooth, dream, and bodily function… it’s a miracle that I still listen at all, if you ask me.

            “Mmm hmmm…” I replied, absentmindedly.

            “It sounded like someone was having an asthma attack,” he continued.

            “Well… you’re the only one with asthma, so are you sure you weren’t just congested and hearing your own breathing?”

            “No, it wasn’t coming from my room.”

            “Maybe it was the baby monitor then.  It could’ve been echoing Wyatt’s sound machine or something.”  I was getting a little tired of guessing, but it didn’t seem we were going to stop with this game until we got to the bottom of things.

            “No… I don’t think it was that.  It was around 11 o’clock and I just couldn’t sleep.  It sounded like maybe it was coming from your room?”

            It was in the next moment that I had solved the mystery of the questionable asthma attack that occurred at 11pm the previous night.

            “Mom, it kinda sounded like this.”  With quick breaths, my son rehearsed the panting sounds he was referring to – they were the sounds of a husband and wife who had been ships passing in the night for too many weeks to count – the sound of allergy-congested people finding comfort in the arms of their significant other.

Photo by www.rawstory.com

            As my son continued to ignorantly pant in the backseat, I contemplated driving the van into the river, because there was really no way for either of us to un-hear the sounds that we’d heard.

            My 8-year-old began to laugh.  “That’s weird, Cameron!  I wonder where the sound was coming from.”

            Flustered, I began to stumble over 1st grade words.  I mucked up the word “T.V.” as I tried to explain that perhaps the volume had been too loud.  I mispronounced “remote” as I suggested that their Dad had probably hit the increase volume button when he meant to hit the decrease volume button.  Overall, I felt dizzy and just a bit nauseous.

            But Cameron was not to be deterred.  “Well… I don’t think it was the T.V., Mom, because I heard that already before the sounds started.  It didn’t sound like T.V. noise.  It sounded like this…”  My 10-year-old proceeded to mimic the sounds for a second time.

            I quickly talked over him, saying that I had fallen asleep and who really knows what show came on once I was sleeping… it could’ve been a show where someone was crying, or perhaps someone who was afraid.  I reminded them that when people feel extreme fear, sometimes their breathing will come very quickly.  (Because obviously this was the best possible moment to review feelings and the effects they have on our bodies.  But chalk one up for Mom and finding a therapeutic moment, right?)

            For a minute, it seemed that my son was satisfied.  He looked out his window as the toddler continued to announce each car that passed with a resounding “Caaaar!”

            “But Mom, it started when Dad went upstairs, so wouldn’t he have turned off the T.V. if you were asleep?”

            Oh for crap’s sake!

            “Honey, I don’t know!  Maybe Dad changed the channel to something he wanted to watch, and there was someone crying or scared on that channel… how am I to answer all these absurd questions?  I’m supposed to be focusing on the road, here!”

            Cameron seemed deep in thought.  He quietly made the noises to himself once more in the backseat as he and his sister determined that it just couldn’t have been someone scared.  But sensing that he was on thin ice, he tried once more.  “Um, but Mom?  The noises ended when Dad went back downstairs…”

            And then I realized what I had to do.  I had no choice but to throw my husband under the bus.  “See, there you go.  The noises came from Dad.  Maybe you thought they were coming from our room, but Dad was probably just going to the bathroom.”  I felt like rejoicing, because obviously bearing down too hard doing one’s personal business can imitate deeds of an even more personal nature, can’t they?

            “Yeah… but I went to the bathroom to get a drink of water and Dad wasn’t in there.  It was definitely coming from your room,” my son replied thoughtfully.

            How exactly is my son in Special Education when his reasoning skills are this advanced?  Perhaps if he suspected his Math problems getting it on with one another, he’d pay closer attention in class!

            “Cameron. If Dad wasn’t in the bathroom, then he was obviously in our room.”

            “And he was probably crying, Cameron,” piped in the sister.  “He probably misses Isaac.”

            “Yes!  Dad was probably sad over Isaac.  So let it go, we don’t want to embarrass him for crying.”  It was the best I could do in that moment.  Taylor sat in the backseat looking heartbroken for her father, whereas Cameron still looked like he couldn’t quite swallow what I was feeding him.

            “I’ll ask Dad if he’s OK when he gets home then,” he said with resolve.

            I made two mental notes as we arrived at our destination that evening:

1)      Inform Husband to admit to being a big crybaby if asked

2)      Have Cameron’s sleeping medication increased ASAP.

           But before we finished exiting the van, Taylor asked me this endearing question.  “Mom?  Should I make Dad a card, telling him I hope he feels better?”

           “No, honey.  I think Daddy probably got it all out and he feels much better now.”

           Mental Note #3: No more hanky panky.  EVER.

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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Confessions of a Human Mom

I have a secret I must confess.

I am human.  *Gasp!*  I know, it’s a tough pill to swallow.  But I’ve been human for about 34 years now.  Because of the comments and emails I get from many MommyhoodSFS readers, I was beginning to think that I’d given you the impression that I had all the answers – that I had found a way to “cure” my kids somehow, simply because I send out messages of Hope and encouragement so often.  However, I need to remind you that I’m incredibly human with flaws bigger than my actual children!

The crazy thing is, my kids?  They’re human, too.  They’re human with an extra dose of crazy stuffed into their pockets.  And their humanity has been clashing with mine at colossal rates these past few weeks.  Yesterday, I was close to sending them out into the yard with shovels to dig holes (6 feet deep).  But instead, I chose to use words I would not normally say to them, scream until my throat hurt, and stomp my feet very angrily… because stomping angry feet is the tap dance of a Mama who has been pushed well beyond her limit!

(Bing Images - myparenthecial.com)

Did my kids break anything?  No, well, not intentionally.  Did they get suspended at school?  No, just the usual reports.  Were they aggressive?  Destructive?  Raging?  Again, nope.  So why have I unleashed my humanity so ferociously on these precious little people?

The only way that I know to describe it is this:

Imagine that every day, each time you saw your neighbor, he smiled at you and then walked over to shake your hand.  Except instead of shaking your hand, he flicked you in your forehead.  Every day.  Every interaction.  For 4 years.

Eventually, even the calmest person could find themself transformed into the Unabomber.  Not because being flicked on the forehead really hurts, but because it was constant.  Relentless.  And all the evidence points to the fact that it, quite possibly, may never stop.

I can tell you that I would give my neighbor a shovel and he would be out there digging a hole right alongside my kids.

But as for our house, I am constantly being flicked in the proverbial forehead with lying, back-talking, arguing, and the incessant attempts by these short ones to do all they can to tick the other one off.  This is followed by more arguing, more lies, yelling, stealing of toys, and doing things to get the other one in trouble.  For 4 years, this has been our daily constant.  And for almost a month, this has been our every waking moment.

I didn’t realize just how Unabomber I’d become until my kids missed their bus stop one day and were returned to the school at the end of the bus driver’s route.  Instead of them walking in the door at 3:48 that afternoon, I picked them up at 4:15 from the school.  And those 27 minutes were the most glorious of the day.  It was like being a kid and waking up, only to find there was a snow day.  I had 27 more minutes without arguing and fighting… 27 less minutes I had to hold back my humanity until bedtime.

You know you’re human when you wonder if you can leave them at the school even longer and go for a massage.  It was only out of love for our blessed principal that caused me to pick them up in a timely fashion… even if I did take the long way.

I’ve come to realize that I can love my children enough to feel immense anger at them when they act like hateful beasts.  I can love them enough to tap dance and scream when they refuse to follow simple instructions (ones that were given no less than 45 times in 10 minutes).  You see, I used to think it was hate… but I now know that if I hated them, I just simply wouldn’t care.  But I love them so much that I feel sick over the thought that they hate one another – that they may end up with no friends in life – that they may know what the inside of a jail cell looks like.  I love them so much that I am unable to hold back my anger when they act like anything less than human towards others or when they lie to my face for no apparent reason. 

I love them so much that I can have these strong feelings and know that I will survive them just the same.  So, to those of you that have flexed your humanity this week, that have given your kids shovels, or that have threatened the most ridiculous of consequences, you are not alone.  You are human.  And you do this because you love.  Know when to say you’re sorry, know when to own your mistakes.  But let us never question our big feelings, for they are what make us real.

If you, too, are human and need some extra parenting help, click HERE.