The Fear of Being Found Out

Living inside me for as long as I can remember, is a book. I have always known it was there, or, perhaps, I came to believe it was there because I was never told any different. During all the hours spent telling stories around my mother’s dining room table, in every exaggerated tale I recounted for my friends, in every blog post I write… there has always been this sense that the rest of the story was tucked somewhere inside me - too young, too fragile - to make its way out. I can’t count how many times someone has said to me, through laughter or tears (and oftentimes both), that I need to write a book.

And they’re right. I need to write this book.

Because it’s always been there, and I can’t carry it around any more.

Back in November, a friend of mine decided to submit some of my writing (without my knowledge) to an acquisitions editor at a reputable publishing company. I was terrified and unprepared for the feeling of vulnerability that came with her telling me that she did this, but I could hardly be mad at a girl for believing in me. Especially since, after reading the pieces she submitted, they asked to come to see me speak at a small event in Michigan and then that led to the longest lunch meeting known to man. Our three hour lunch led to a notoriously heavy and daunting door, which opened to me, ever so slightly. The door was cracked just enough for a little light and hope to come through, along with the whisper of an invitation. That glimmer of an invitation was for me to submit a book proposal. 

Do you want to know what happens to the book that has always been inside of you when someone invites you to finally attempt to write it?  

You know what else happens?

It disappears. 

Yes, the book that has always been there, vanishes. But it doesn't just disappear. Oh no... it disappears and then you also have an existential crisis. And you begin to wonder if it was ever really there to begin with. And you question your own truth and your ability to share it, and you question everything you thought you were so sure about. And you panic, and maybe you start to write a fiction manuscript, because you have completely lost your head at this point. And then you stop letting yourself be afraid to learn from the people who have gone before you - even if you think they got it wrong - and you stop feeling so alone, and so afraid. And you start to find your book again.

 At least… that’s what I hear happens to people.

This process has taught me how much fear - thick and pernicious - runs through my bones. Fear that what I have to say won’t matter. Fear that I have no right to say anything at all. Fear that all this fear will hinder the quality, and reach, of my message. Fear that I don’t even have a message, at least not one that is unique or meaningful. Fear that I will get it wrong. Fear that I will get it right (and then people will think I actually know things!) Fear that this will take more away from my family than it gives. Fear that the door will close as quickly as it has barely cracked. Fear that I will be embarrassed when my book proposal is rejected (they almost always are - many, many, many times.) Fear that I will quit before I even get a chance to be rejected. Fear that I won’t ever quit and I will just keep forcing something that isn’t supposed to be. Fear that I will actually care about publishing and writing won’t feel pure anymore, that the pursuit will ruin my honesty, my integrity as a writer. Fear that I won’t care enough about getting published and so it will never happen. Fear that everyone will finally know that I am a phony, and will confirm to me that I am, in fact, the worst possible perception I have of myself.

So. Much. Fear.

 And gosh, so much ego it’s sickening.

So, I am all done processing this privately. It’s just not in my DNA to be scared all by myself. What makes me audacious is that I can’t keep my big mouth shut for more than a minute. What makes me relatable is that I will tell the beautiful, harsh and sometimes ugly truth about my life. What makes you come back is that I can sometimes be brave. Telling you all about what I fear most makes me feel really vulnerable, but that is also where I feel most brave.

So as much as I would like to curl up inside my fear, and hunker down for good... I won’t, because that would keep me small. That would keep my truth, my GOD, so small. And so, as much as I fear you all discovering that I am a total fraud, I will risk rejection and I will walk into this thing exposed and vulnerable and maybe sometimes even a little bit brave. I will let my stories, my truth, my God, be bigger than my fear. I will invite Him to show up in ways that are so much bigger than my fragile ego, and my concern for how the world will perceive who I am or what I do.

And I will invite you all into the process too. Because when you have a book inside you for 35 stinkin' years, it simply must get written eventually, even if it’s no good. And you, my beloved readers, are the ones I want with me as I go. Writing for you has made me feel brave. Finally brave enough to let that - too young, too fragile - story inside me, grow big enough and sturdy enough to come out.

Are Kids "Lucky" to be Adopted?

I have never been so thoroughly pursued by a man in all my life as I have been by my four year old son. I am telling you, this child proposes marriage - not daily - but hourly. And those are on his weaker days! Sometimes the professions of love and desperate proposals come incessantly. When he kisses me goodnight, it is with both of his sweet, almost-always-sticky brown hands pressed on each side of my face (a romantic proclamation of my beauty is usually involved at this point) and then he kisses me in a frenzy of uncontrolled emotion. With these bodacious lips.

It is the most adorable and unnecessary display of passion I've ever been the recipient of. And it happens all. day. long. Quite simply, the boy is in love. But, there is something peculiar about the urgency and intensity of his affections for me. It has taken me some time to put my finger on why exactly that is. He seems almost desperate in his expressions of love, to the point that he seems almost exasperated by it.

"I'm gonna marry you so much!" and "I'm just lovin' you, UGH I'm just lovin' you so MUCH." He picks flowers for me every time we step foot outside - one bunch of dandelions "for now" and the other handful "for our wedding tomorrow, or yesterday." I have never met a four year old boy so preoccupied with getting married. So, I decided to get to the bottom of his romantic shenanigans.

After several long discussions, I think I have come to a place of understanding. He is afraid.

Jay was about 24 hours old when I first met him in the hospital. His first mom, the lovely Miss N., and I had been in contact over the phone during the weeks leading up to his birth. Tom and I developed a fast connection with her, and because we had already had a previous adoption fall through, we knew that the child she was carrying may not end up being part of our family. And while common sense, previous experience, and all of our loved ones told us to be cautious, we loved her. We weren't thinking about "protecting ourselves" or "not getting too attached." Our relationship with her was developing not because we hoped to parent her child, but because she is adorable and not loving her would be impossible. We made a promise to her that we would be there to help and support her in any way she needed, regardless of the decision she ended up making. She invited us to come to the birth and seemed firm in her decision to place Jay with us when he was born. Still, we reminded her that giving birth is an unimaginable game-changer, and we wanted her to have plenty of room to feel free to change her mind if she felt at any point that she wanted to pursue parenting opposed to placing him with us. We tried to be supportive and encouraging throughout the emotion. To be completely honest, as much as we loved Jay from the first moment we laid eyes on him, we were pulling for her to parent. We really believed she could do it. 

For her own personal reasons - reasons that are hers to tell, not mine - she allowed us to be his parents. It was a gift, a great responsibility and an honor, of course. But it was also a tragedy. 

For a baby and his mother to be separated from one another is always an utter tragedy. The grief that Tom and I experienced on their behalf was minuscule in comparison to what they endured. This is true for both of our children who came to us through adoption. And while it looks so different for them both, every single day I see the primal wound that this separation has inflicted upon my babies. And their first mamas.

Since realizing this, Jay's romantic advances, while precious, have become just like every other aspect of adoption. There is a bitter-sweetness underlying every kiss, a complex fear of being apart from me that drives every impassioned sentiment, a child's desperate attempt to guarantee that he will never lose another mama drives every marriage proposal.

Both of my boys are perfect, but they are both hurting in their own way. They both long for the security that comes from a mother's love. People often downplay the pain that adoptees endure, assuming that a child who was adopted in infancy "never knows the difference." These same people will watch nature documentaries and marvel that a sea turtle can travel all over the ocean and make its way back to it's home. (I don't actually know if sea turtles do that, but you get my drift.) If an animal has a primal instinct to find it's way home, how much more does a human child have that same pull?

And I may not know much about sea turtles, but I do know this... my boys, in some sense, will always be longing for home. And people say that they are "lucky to have us." But, when my nine year old son wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest because he dreamed of meeting his beautiful birthmom for the very first time, lucky isn't how I'd describe him.

Whether they can understand all the nuances at this point or not, they will always know that in our home, they have the right to feel sad about their adoption. And they have the right to feel happy about it too, and angry, and confused, and relieved and all the things. Even... unlucky. 

My prayer is that as they grow and mature, and really begin to feel the weight and implications of their adoption stories, that they will forgive us for all the ways that we could not meet their needs, for every shortcoming and every imperfection. My prayer is that our flaws will only make them long for another home, and eternal home, where our perfect Father waits to hold them and love them and meet every need they ever had. 

Somewhere Between Solid & Liquid : One Journey of Infertility

I invited my friend Sherri to blog here today because her story is one that so many men and women can relate to. I know that those of you who face infertility - and the exhausting emotions that come with the cyclical hope-disappointment-despair - will be particularly blessed by it. And for those of you that do not face such a battle, my prayer is that Sherri's words will make everyone a little more aware, a little more sensitive, and a lot more compassionate. I know that you all will show Sherri so much love for sharing her story here. I have the world's best blog followers. (Or technically the worst since like 0.001% of you that read the blog regularly have actually subscribed. So, go ahead and fix that first by subscribing below... and then show Sherri some love.) Many, many thanks to Sherri for her beautiful, honest, and wise words. 

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When you mix cornstarch and water together, you end up with a sticky yet somewhat stable material called “oobleck”. It’s on the fence of deciding whether it is going to be a liquid or a solid. Under pressure it feels hard, yet when you try to hold it- it liquefies. Oobleck is an accurate description of me walking through years of infertility. I was a solid form, working in a dental office, married, attending church, paying the bills. Yet as the official diagnosis came into perspective, I became messy and fragile underneath a hard exterior.  

Something I learned is that infertility doesn’t discriminate. There is somewhat of an age factor, but it crosses the lines of all socioeconomic levels, race, ethnicity, etc. I was 24, and I believed the doctors when they said to not worry, pregnancy will happen. Instead, I endured years of painful, violating tests with little results.

The urologist, who was pregnant, of course, did not take our situation seriously. She waved her hand in front of her protruding belly and said, “Don’t worry, you’re young! We’ll get you pregnant!” As a dental hygienist —a healthcare provider— her statement steams me; I never promise anyone a particular outcome. She probably was not as daft as I am remembering, but that’s what infertility does to you, or me, that is. It makes you angry.

I was hardening on the outside, and at the same time I was a crying, snotty mess whenever I was home. My intimate life that I shared only with my husband and God was furled out on display for all to see. I felt dissected.

We wanted our pregnancy announcement to be an exciting surprise, and with every holiday that came, I daydreamed how I would tell Jeff and our families that we were expecting. I thought of everything.

I dreamed of a baby in Autumn, so January was the target month. I was careful to plan sex around ovulation in March because I didn’t want my baby to have to share Christmas. I planned every holiday and the pregnancy announcement gifts for our parents, and every holiday that passed by was a reason to start thinking ahead for the next one. It’s probably good that Pinterest wasn’t around then. I was happy for friends who announced their pregnancies and I dreamed about sharing the experience of pregnancy with my friends and with my sister.

I stopped purchasing clothes altogether because we were on limited finances due to the testing (Jeff and I had a couple of years where we didn’t have insurance, so our budget was blown). The truth is, I blamed ‘no shopping’ on the budget, but what I was secretly hoping was to be saving for maternity clothes.

I stopped planning trips, and whenever someone talked about going away or flying, I would think to myself, “Well, I’m not sure if I will be able to travel in x months”. I visited my bestie— Melissa, in Italy, which was great, but leading up to the trip, I wondered if I’d even be able to travel or if I’d be pregnant. The constant waiting for our little miracle was wearing on me, month after month.

I lived my life in two week chunks. TWW is an abbreviation for the two week wait that occurs after ovulation and before you start your period… it’s pretty stressful. It was even more stressful when Jeff started traveling for work. He is an awesome husband and a provider for our family, but it was very easy to hate his job. It was my own hurt, expectations, and hormone driven craziness that made me angry and take it out on him when he spent entire weeks out of town. The window for conception is pretty slim, and I know that my brokenness inhibited our relationship.

I yearned to have morning sickness. Any time I thought I could possibly be pregnant and I had some feeling of an upset stomach, I was elated. There were two times that I thought that I was pregnant because I was a couple of days late - and I was never late. But, as cruel as AF is (Aunt Flo for the non-infertile people) those periods were worse. I have always wondered if I miscarried, and though I told myself that it shouldn’t matter, I was still curious. I took a lot of pregnancy tests… and ovulation tests. There were times that I was so sure that I was pregnant that I would stare at the line hoping that another one would show up. One time, okay probably more than once, I took a test out of the trash. It’s called BFN (Big Fat Negative) when that second line doesn’t appear. I bought the tests at a CVS near my office— that way no one would see me buying them. Same with the multivitamins with DHA in them— I didn’t want anyone to know before we were ready.

The hardest part was succumbing to reality— this was never going to happen. Honestly, right up until the week before my hysterectomy, I believed that God could change our situation, that I could have a mini-me.

Once I realized that Jeff and I were most likely not able to carry a biological child, we were years into our journey, and I was mentally fried. We were tired of discussing it with each other and exhausted from walking this path alone. I didn’t realize this while in the process, but I had intentionally yet unknowingly isolated myself from my friends and family. It was easier to talk to my patients than it was my family, because I would be a teary, crying mess.

My wall went up brick by brick with every pregnancy announcement, whether it was real or on television. I know this sounds ridiculous, but I stopped watching Grey’s Anatomy because a character was pregnant. Incredulously I would exclaim, “They can’t just write that in a script and have it happen!” and cry myself to sleep. The Nature Channel, Springtime with all those baby animals being born, any children’s advertisement on television, and new Disney movies —they all were reminders of what wouldn’t happen for us. Okay, I also hid every post, story, or live feed video of that pregnant giraffe on my newsfeed. Quite honestly, I’m just glad that the birth is over with.

I remember hating Christmas. I’m a Christian, Christians can’t hate Christmas! Well, if you are an infertile reading this, what I am going to say is not a surprise to you. So here it is for everyone else wondering how I could have possibly hated Christmas: Mary was a VIRGIN. Then, pregnant. I know. I know the Christmas story, but I also know the feeling of grief, the loss of my dreams and the bargaining that comes hand in hand with infertility, and when you see a pregnant virgin, well, you don’t always think clearly. Also, I have an issue with children out with their parents shopping at 11pm and the Christmas season seems to bring all the craziness out. (I’m mostly referring to my own feelings here, not the overtired children in large chain stores when I believe they should be in bed.)

When I think of how I felt years back and what it may be like for you now, I feel the urge to vomit. Infertility is so unfair. My heart aches for you, longing to hold your child, waiting to hear the name, Mommy. Infertility is not your fault.

Hear me, dear one. Infertility is not your fault and it is not “part of God’s plan for your life”. The reason that you are unable to carry a baby is not because you haven’t believed enough, prayed enough, learned enough Bible verses, or that you don’t trust God enough. (Or, that your hubby is wearing briefs and taking a bath instead of airing out the goods in boxers).

So, I have some news for you: you don’t have to mimic oobleck, and thank goodness, neither do I. It took me many tear-filled years reading books on infertility, reading scripture, and praying to see that I needed to give myself a break and break free from my own expectations. I forced myself to sit through countless baby showers, baptisms at church, holding friend’s babies, and many other uncomfortable tasks because I felt I had to display that hard exterior. It’s okay to do those things, and sometimes they are fun, but if you feel like you will end up a drippy, snotty mess, stay home and pamper yourself. I’ve learned the power of the word, No.

I’ve also realized that it’s okay to share my story, and when I have, people have shared with me their hurts because they’ve felt comfortable with me. I was debilitated by my isolation, and I carried a heavy burden —opening up allowed me to see how many people supported us.

No matter your situation, I would encourage you to seek out counsel— whether professional or online through a group site or a blogpost, or read a good book. I follow “Waiting for Baby Bird”, and she has been a blessing to me, I wish I had her posts years ago. One of the books that was pivotal in my life was Kathe Wunnenburg’s “Longing for a Child: Devotions of Hope for Your Journey Through Infertility”. Her insight inspired me to free myself from my expectations and to take a break when I needed it. In one of her devotions, she connects anxiety with her birthday, and I realized that I did the same. Understanding that increase in anxiety, I purposely surrounded myself with the ones that I love and that love me.  

Dear friend, you are not alone. You may feel alone in your walk, but know that the Creator of this universe —the God of Heaven— is holding you, gathering your tears, and longing to heal your broken heart.     

"It’s on the fence of deciding whether it is going to be a liquid or a solid. Under pressure it feels hard, yet when you try to hold it- it liquefies." - Sherri Kurtz

Spanking in Public & How to Parent Like a Total Boss

I'm pretty sure my kids' principal saw me spank my husband in the school parking lot. I know what you're thinking...
"nbd, we've all been there." Right? That IS what you were thinking wasn't it?

No? Just us with the spanking?

Alright, well... if you'd had our morning you, too, would have some celebratory victory-swatting going on in public. Because this particular spank was about 3 years in the making. 

It all started when our son (now 9 years old) was in first grade. He needed some extra support because we were seeing signs of Reactive Attachment Disorder, yet were not aware of what he was actually struggling with. Without a diagnosis, there is very little support, so we ended up pulling Harper out of school half way through first grade. We had a tutor come to our home for an hour a day just so he wouldn't fall behind, but academics were the least of our worries. We spent that time home doing a lot of - what we lovingly refer to as - baby-ducking. Baby-ducking is a part of the therapeutic approach we were taking, and it's a really fun little descriptor that essentially means that your child is following you around 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, ya know, like a baby duck. I know it doesn't sound bad, but I assure you that it's pretty exhausting and much less adorable when baby duck (thinks he) hates your guts. 

By the time we enrolled him back in school for second grade we were working closely with an excellent therapist who specializes in disordered and insecure attachment. We had comprehensive testing done to ensure that Harper not only had a diagnosis, but all the tests and evaluations required to meet New York State's criteria to receive special education services. But here's the thing... we thought that was all we needed. We thought, "we don't have to be "those parents" who go in and demand all kinds of services, because our kid has a legit thing." And this "thing" is no longer an illusive, mysterious set of symptoms that make me look crazy. Finally, we had a well-documented, official DSM certified Severe Emotional Disturbance!! (You know you're in a rough patch when that last sentence is the good news.) Still, we thought we had everything we would need.

We were wrong.

Apparently, we needed to get to a point where I ALSO had a severe emotional disturbance.

Check, annnnnd check. (See post about the time I went B-A-N-A-N-A-S here.)

After the bananas, we knew that we had gotten to the point where we were willing to be "those parents" and we then requested another CSE meeting. So, on Thursday my husband, Tom, and I went in. He was a total boss. To be fair, he was the kind of boss who is so steady and relaxed, you wonder if he might be stoned... but he was a boss nonetheless. (*He was also not stoned, mom, so settle down.) He's just really calm and so nice by nature that he can't even be a boss in an unpleasant way. He (waaaaaay over-)prepared information from some intimidating group called something like The Justice League of Super Hero Lawyers for Moms About to Lose their Ever Lovin' Minds. And before the meeting, he even sent a semi-scary email, in which, he took a firm and serious tone.

It was pretty hot.

Riding Tom's over-prepared coattails, I closed in with an impassioned speech about why Harper truly does need to have an aide assigned to him - at least during unstructured times, like recess, lunch, etc. I didn't cry or start spontaneously swearing, which is how I usually imagine myself unraveling in these high-stress scenarios because I have been teetering precariously at the edge of insanity all school year. 

So here we are, at the end of third grade, and WE HAVE ARDENTLY AND SUCCESSFULLY ATTAINED AN IEP!!

Not only did we get that Individualized Education Plan in place, but we have secured a 1-to-1 aide for our guy during all unstructured times - which is when a child like ours really needs the extra support. I had been told repeatedly that getting an aide for him would be an impossibility. I mean, MULTIPLE times, I was told "It's never going to happen." 

So, forgive me if I walked out of that building with so much relief and empowerment that I spanked my husband while aggressively sports-yelling at the side of his face "We did it son!"

How was I to know that the school psychologist and principal would be right behind us? After our performance, one could only have assumed that all other meeting participants would still be in the conference room, doing slo-mo replays of our boss-like successes in parental advocacy. How was I to know that they would just leave the meeting after it was done? When such dope parenting had just taken place before their very impressed eyes, how could I conceive that they would have the wherewithal to move on to the parking lot?

Ah well, at least they didn't see all the chest-bumping and athletic growling that I forced Tom to participate in when we got home.

Actual photograph of us on Thursday morning...

And all Thursday night...

And well into Friday...

Wave after wave of glorious relief on Saturday...

Then Easter Sunday we took a break from all the fanfare, to celebrate a much greater victory... Jesus overcoming death and evil.

But this morning, I'm not gonna lie. The sense of triumph came back full force. 

Next year, this child of ours will go on to a bigger school, with more transitions, more kids, more freedom, less structure. This is good for a lot of kids, most kids in fact. For my child, however, this transition was like a train heading straight for us. We kept seeing it approach, the speed never changing and all we can do as parents is anticipate the damage that will be done on impact. So, we prayed and prayed and prayed. And Tom prepared and prepared and prepared. And I went just a titch ballistic. And we became "those parents" because the alternative was simply too dangerous for our kid. 

So... spanks all around. Because I know that this taste of relief is temporary. This rare and glorious optimism that maybe next year will be a little better and little easier than the last, is fleeting. We needed that victory spank. We needed a triumph. Because even though we really do believe in a God whose only son was sent to earth to triumph, once and for all, over death and evil... we know that life on this side of heaven, is still wrought with train after train, pain after pain. And though we have fought long and hard for our bizarre little children to feel a little safer, a little better, on the tracks... life always has another train ready to barrel over us. It sounds a little doomsday, I know, but pain and suffering are just a reality in the life of a human and I accept that a new obstacle, a new train, will be set in our son's path. But, we've worked really hard to learn our stuff, to drop the right names, to know his rights, so until we stare down that next train... we get to bask in the sweet relief of a temporary win on earth, and an eternal win beyond these earthly tracks.

And when you are in that place - a place of hope and favor and full, unrestrained joy... a place of amazement at God's faithfulness in this victory and the victory on the cross - you really must spank someone in the parking lot. Because these moments are all we have to sustain and energize us as we over-prepare for the next fight, like a total and complete boss. 

Life in the Tension

Sometimes I like to imagine what my kids will remember me teaching them throughout their childhood. What will stick? Will they remember all the "I love you's?" Will the "you're so brave's" and "tell me about your day's" be the words that become fastened to their memory? Or will something else overshadow the sweet and encouraging sentiments? One thing I frequently tell them that they find less favorable (but I am certain they will remember me saying) is "that is not a real problem." Let's run this down so we are all clear on what a real problem is in our house.

Scenario 1: You are four years old and you have no food to eat. At all. Ever.

Correct, that's a real problem. 

Scenario 2: You are four years old and you do not like "beet taste." 

Not even close to a real problem. (Also, beets are delicious.)  

Scenario 3: You must spend a half a day walking to a source of (questionably) drinkable water. 

Yes, this. This is a real problem. 

Scenario 4: Your food touches.  

No. Having your hot, nutritious food touch other bits of hot, nutritious food? That is - comically - not a real problem. 

You can see how they might remember me saying this. Because it is said frequently. And trust me, we are a big 'feelings' house. We talk about our feelings, we validate each others feelings, we use lots of expressive feeling words. There is no shutting down how they might feel about beets. This is a safe space to feel strong dislike for "beet taste." While I strive to always hear and even affirm their feelings, I don't pretend for a second that this is a real problem. 

I was discussing this with my friend Megan the other day. (Some of you might remember her from previous #AdamsActs posts about the heartbreaking loss of one of their sweet little twin girls, Zoey.) Megan and I were discussing our very low threshold for problems-that-aren't-really-problems. I think that low threshold is directly correlated with experiencing great and tragic loss. It changes you. It changes your perspective on what suffering is. It changes your capacity to tolerate complaints about that which is not a real problem. 

When facing challenges of various kinds, the leaders at our church will often use this phrase, "This is a tension to manage, not a problem to solve." Ugh... I love this, and oh how I wish that this concept would go ahead and just embed itself in my memory already! There are some challenges in my life that I have viewed as problems I desperately need to solve. Or avoid. Or feel sorry for myself about. These "problems" are not really problems to solve, they are simple tensions to manage. 

Instead of graciously managing the tensions, I have tried to control the tensions. I have tried solving the tensions. I have attempted to escape or avoid or blame the tensions. Shoot, I'd punch the tensions in the face if I could. Yet, nothing changes... the tension remains.

I recently shifted my definition of a problem to something more like this: a problem is only a problem if there is an actionable step one can take to work toward a solution. If no actionable step can be taken, there can be a lot of tension. That tension needs to be managed in a healthy way.

Parenting a child with a pretty severe behavioral disorder can feel a heck of a lot like a life-consuming problem. Except for one thing... there is no actionable step that I can possibly take to work toward a solution.

I must live in the tension. 

I can pray in the tension. I can cry in the tension. I can seek wise counsel in the tension. I can adjust my attitude about the tension. But I cannot solve it. I must accept it. 

The focus then is not on how to "solve" my son's disorder, but on how I can remain emotionally, physically and spiritually healthy enough to manage the tension that surfaces in light of my son's disorder.   

You may be wondering, "Who cares? What's the difference?" But the difference is everything. It's the difference between overwhelming shame that I cannot heal my child, and accepting him where he's at in his process. It's the difference between feeling exhausted and infuriated by the sheer volume of time spent supervising every little move, and recognizing our family's need for respite in order to prevent that fury and exhaustion. 

The difference is the understanding that I cannot play the Holy Spirit in my child's life. In the tension, I can only manage my own reactions, my own health, my relationships. But in the tension, I can know that I did not cause my child to have Reactive Attachment Disorder any more than I can cause my child's aversion to the glorious taste of a perfectly roasted sugarbeet. 

I did not cause either of these phenomena, and I cannot "cure" them either. I can only manage myself in the tension. 

It's hard to suffer well. And the greatest suffering occurs when there is no actionable step to take, because we cannot solve our way out of our pain. We cannot bring back the child that died. Or the parent who left. We cannot heal the primal wound that is left within the child who is separated from his first mother. 

We must simply learn to live, and accept, and love, in the tension.

So, when my five little ones are all grown and they reflect back upon their childhood, I hope that what they remember most is all the expressions of love, encouragement and adoration. Yet, I don't mind if they also remember me clarifying the difference between a real problem - real suffering - and something that is simply a tension to manage. Not only do I hope they remember hearing me speak these truths into their life, but I hope they remember me living, and loving, in the tensions... and teaching them to someday do the same. 

Jay, age four, confronting his greatest fear, a beet.  

The Time I Went B-A-N-A-N-A-S

Yesterday was a bad day. A really, really bad day. I basically failed at life yesterday.

My sister-in-law, Carlie, recently sent me a song that has become my anthem. I have this song on repeat for much of the day, and I'm telling you that if you watch this video, and watch it all the way to the end, you're gonna straight up pray that sinner's prayer. Okay, maybe you won't, but that is the impact that Miss Tasha Cobbs has on me when she's singing this song. This song, it is my anthem.

Plus, my voice sounds a lot like hers.

Official performance video for "Fill Me Up/Overlow" by Tasha Cobbs. Recorded Live at Redemption Church in Greenville, SC. Video Producer & Director: Chiquita Lockley, Associate Video Producer: Bohannon Nichols, Executive Producer: Tasha Cobbs, Editor: Terrence Crowley, Musical Director: Kenneth Leonard, Music Producer: VaShawn Mitchell, Music Co-Producer: Tasha Cobbs.

I can not overstate how this has become my battle cry. "I am empty before you, fill me up God." 

I don't know how it is possible to feel so empty, and also so full of my own self. I am empty, and yet, I am stuffed. I am stuffed with selfishness, with fear, with stress, with rage, with pride, with self-loathing, with a desire for control, and more than anything else, I am stuffed with a desire for relief. I am stuffed sick of my self, and at the very same time I feel completely empty. So, I listen to this song on repeat and I let Ol' Tasha usher Jesus into my empty places, and I let him sweetly pour me out, all of that junk that is in me, I beg him to let it spill out so that He alone can fill me up. 

I know that this sounds ridiculous if you have never encountered Jesus as a living leader and active forgiver. But, for me... this song is like being in a spiritual spin class. Where the instructor is leading me into an excercise that I lack the motivation and discipline and know-how to do on my own. Listening to this song has been a spiritual excercise, and the incredible voice on that woman is walking me through the process of opening up inside, and letting a holy fire burn out whatever is left in me, so that I can be an empty vessel that God, in his mercy, can fill to overflowing.

Yesterday was a bad day. Yesterday, I was empty. And I am realizing now that "empty" just means that I am actually full - of all the wrong things. So, yesterday I was stuffed. And I lost it. I absolutely lost my mind. I have a new respect for the phrase " go bananas" because I truly and completely went bananas. Ironically, about 14 bananas were actually involved in this particular incident. I won't go into the whole mess of the thing, but let's just say that lives were saved by the fact that bananas are a soft fruit. If we were talking pineapples, I'd be in jail right now.

It wasn't pretty y'all. My entire dining room was a battle scene, the evidence of our struggle was everywhere. The floor, the table, most of the chairs, the walls, all of it, was caked with smashed banana, and my heart was caked with shame. And while I was on my knees, face down, sobbing in the literal and figurative mess of my life, I heard Tasha Cobbs still playing on my phone. It was at 3:56 into the video and in the song she is begging God to fill her up. 

Fill me up, God

Fill me up, God

Fill me up, God

Thirty times in that section of the song, the phrase, my anthem, is repeated.  

"Somebody ask him," she sings, "I need a fresh annointing... Somebody ask him, fill me again. I need more of you. I've been running on empty. I need you to fill me again. We cry out for more. More of your spirit is what we need. More of your annointing, more of your glory, fill me up. That's what I really want, that's what I really need. I'm so tired of me, I need more of you. I gotta have more of you. "

A couple weeks ago, I was the key-note speaker for a weekend retreat. Next week I go to Michigan for two speaking events, and when I get back home, I have even more events lined up, or maybe not after I publish this post. Either way, I am not selling out arenas or anything, none of these events are necessaily huge or impressive. But, I stand before people and I tell them about my life, I tell them about the wisdom in the Bible, the truths of scripture, but ultimately... I only ever say one thing, that Jesus is the bringer of hope and redemption. That is my only message.

Sure, I write and speak about my life. I talk about parenting a child with Reactive Attachment Disorder. I talk about being a multi-racial, adoptive family. I talk about racism. I talk about the violent end to my brother's life, and my response to his death (#AdamsActs) with you all. I share my family's personal experiences - my daughter's current health struggles, my mistakes and my struggles, about throwing down with bananas, cross-country road trips, general shenanigans, and all the in-between stuff. But, all of that sharing is just a pouring out. It's just an attempt to overflow what God is doing, has ALWAYS done, in my life.

I have nothing to say, I have nothing to write, that isn't about redemption.

People often tell me that I should write a book. There are even times where it feels like it could actually be a dream realized. But the question remains - what would my book be about? 

The answer is redemption. The answer can only ever be redemption.

Because I am empty, and yet I am stuffed. And I am the worst. And I lost my head and I went crazy and I let myself lose sight of who God made me to be. And so much banana was involved. And still, somehow, God still lets me speak to rooms full of people. God still lets me tell you my story. He lets me tell you his story.

Please don't tell me how amazing I am in response to this. Please. If there is ANY good thing in me, anything at all that is inspiring, or encouraging, or worthy of admiring in me then you must know, that is not me at all. I am on the floor covered in fruit. I am dry, and empty, and still sickly full of my self, my shame and my sin. But, still, he uses me. I am not amazing, I am broken and he redeems me for his purpose. And that is the miraculous power of the living God that I serve and rely on. Because if, even for a second, I take my eyes and my hope off of Him... I instantly become part of the broken mess. 

And every time I go to write, or speak to other people there is nothing I am more aware of than my own lack. My shortcomings, my limitations, my total and complete depravity are never far from my mind. The day I lose the awareness of my own need for redemption is the day I have no business writing or speaking to anyone again.

Yesterday was a bad day. A really, really bad day. All of us can relate to that. Anyone parenting a difficult child, or does life with somone who has mental health issues, may be able to relate to some degree. Those of you parenting a child with disordered attachment... you have a banana battle story of your own, I'm certain. And as I kneeled down, filthy and sobbing and ashamed, I begged God - out loud and in front of my empty, hurting child - to fill me up.

"Fill me up God, Fill me up God, Fill me up God"

I do not deserve to write or speak to so many people. I am not worthy to speak a single word about a Bible that I can so easily disregard in a moment of anger or exhaustion or emptiness. But,

That. Is. Redemption.

That in the unlikliest places, that at the unlikliest times, in the unlikliest people, God chooses to fill, to forgive, to heal and to sort it out for good. And as long as he continues to redeem me and fill me and give me another go, I will simply never shut up about it.

Burnt Hair, the Hospital and a Rogue Set of Googlies

So much crazy has gone down in the past 72 hours. 

For starters, Windpocalypse 2017 came at us like a wrecking ball, and I mean that in the most literal sense possible. The greater Rochester area, but particularly our town of Irondequoit, just started vomiting trees all over the place. In the words of my four year old son, Jay, "it's insame."

The past few days feel like everything in my life was shoved into an enormous version of that game Barrel of Monkeys, shaken up and then spilled out all tangled and confusing and somehow dangling precariously from one flimsy limb. So, now you all get to experience the literary version of these things being spilled out, in a random, haphazard and somewhat tangled order. Here are the events that transpired over the course of the past 72 hours:

-One ancient tree exploded into the street and landed directly at the end of our driveway, crushing nobody, but if it had fallen in literally any other direction, one of our houses would have been decimated.

Our house is the white one. Jay is by the stump, for perspective.

View of wreckage from attic window.

I picked up these 7 crazies from school to discover the driveway completely blocked - this pic was taken because,for a brief moment, one of them was certain they could move the tree.😂

-A thousand other ancient trees were uprooted, landing on countless homes, cars, a mail truck, a school bus, etc.

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

Our friends' house is under there. :(

And our old church, impaled by its own steeple.  

-Many of these trees took powerlines down with them and we have been without power since 1:30pm on Wednesday.

Photo from Democrat & Chronicle

-I got called into the school because one of my children used magnet letters to write “nipples” on the magnet board. (Before you judge, I should note that he did not learn that word at home. I am not mature enough to use correct anatomical language with my children, so ‘nipples’ is not a word he learned at home. In my house, we say “googlies,” like normal people.)

-The first thing I did after the power went out was spill a canister of white sugar all over the floor. You really do need a vacuum for that sort of situation. This is the one single thing that is stopping me from becoming Amish. Mama needs a vacuum because no birch broom is gonna cut it when you have wall-to-wall sugar carpet. And my hair would never stay under those little bonnets. And also I love nail polish, it keeps me sane. Okay, whatevs, maybe being Amish wasn’t ever really in the cards for me.

-Tom found a secret hidey-door on our fireplace with a battery compartment for just such an emergency. Not the sugar emergency, but the power outage. So, we have a toasty fire in one room that has allowed us to stay in our house, despite the dropping temperatures.

-On a churchlady dare, I gave Tom such an epic kiss that he forgot to put the car in park and I closed the car door on my own knee while Tom just watched the car roll away with his eyes glazed over. #skillz

-We have moved all of our food from the luke-warm fridge, to the front porch, which feels super classy. Nothing says “I have no dignity left” like a huge ziploc bag of chili on the front stoop.

-London was in the hospital for a procedure to confirm Celiac Disease as well as further testing on her thyroid. Her thyroid levels have continued to elevate and each test proves a little more concerning than the last. The GI doc just called to inform us that while we are still waiting for all the lab results to come in, her TSH is, once again, higher than the last test.

-She was a champ at the hospital and in recovery, and groggily requested sushi on our way home. So, high thyroid levels aside, she’s pretty much acting like herself.

-They are calling the power outage a “multi-day event” as if it some sort of special occasion and, Lucky us! We made the guest list!

-The kids are actually having a blast living pretending to be Amish (there’s still a chance for them) and love living by candlelight while we remain one of 92,000 people who initially lost power in Rochester.

-In other news, that may or may not be related to the children enjoying the candlelight, Marlie set her hair on fire.

Guys… do you recall the title of my last post? Please Excuse My Mental Breakdown? Yeah, I think that post may have been a little premature because what in the actual heck is going on!? All of this has been so crazytown, I really have no choice but to laugh.

(Except about London’s poor precious baby thyroid, if you laugh about that I will cut you.)

In times like these – and in complete transparency, my life always seems to be “times like these” – I feel really elderly. I don’t feel like the 35 year old spring chick that I am. I feel a thousand. I feel like one of those skittish, old, maniacal women who laugh way too hard and for way too long, and then the laughing takes a fast curve into spontaneously crying, and all this while feeding so many birds for some reason. That’s me. I’m a thousand and I’m “insame” and I’m here cackling away in the candlelight with all the birds, but I am one sugar-granule-on-the-bare- foot away from snapping.

Poor Tom. Yesterday he had to calmly explain to me why he felt it was actually for my benefit that he talk to me “like a mental patient.” Say goodbye to your magical makeout sessions mister.

In all seriousness, as hectic as the past 72 hours have been (and the preceding 35 years) I haven’t actually lost my mind. That is how I know that Jesus is real. That is how I know that when life comes crashing down, sometimes all at once, he is steady and at the center of it all. And I honestly do not know how I would do each day without him, without the hope that this life isn’t all there is. I really believe that this life, and all its trouble, are temporary. That London will not suffer forever. Even if she suffers for her whole life, it won’t be forever. Even if every 72 hours looks as wild as these ones did, it won’t be forever. It is this awareness that keeps me going. Apart from my hope in a God that sustains us (sometimes with front-stoop chili) I would not make it through another day, let alone come through it laughing.  

We will eventually get our power back. Marlie’s hair will eventually grow back. We will eventually get to the bottom of London’s strange set of symptoms. Eventually, I will be mature enough to explain to my kids what these so-called “nipples” are. Until then, we are just going to say that where we are at right now – even if it is the center of windpocalypse 2017 – is the best place to be, because it is where He has put us. And I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Unless somewhere with less sugar is available.

Please Excuse My Mental Breakdown

I am sort of the queen of hastily published, crappy first drafts. I know you are supposed to read your work, then re-read, edit and have it edited by a discerning second set of eyes. But... yeah... that's not how I do things. This is a blog, and a mediocre one in comparision to the zillion other blogs out there, and if that was my process I would never write. In fact, I write infrequently (in part) beacuse I feel like that should be my process. 

The other night, I abandoned that mosty-self-imposed pressure, and I went with my own process. Which is very scientific. 

Step 1: Have feelings.

Step 2: Tell everyone what they are.

Step 3: Panic when people start reading about the feelings.

Step 4: Live in deep and immediate regret.

Step 5: Have new feelings (which trigger some sort of vulnerability amnesia).

Step 6: Repeat steps 1-5 and continue to produce crappy, unbridled first drafts until someone makes you stop, or arrests you. 

That's it, that's my process. If you don't like it, you can arrest me. A mental health arrest would probably make the most sense, and given my last post it is probably quite obvious that a stay in some sort of facility would feel like a vacation and I welcome it. So go ahead a make the call. I dare you. Nay, I beg you. 

Alright, now that we've set the standard super low, I apologize for the mental breakdown that I published the other day. But, I am only a little sorry because after 4,000 reads, I feel semi-confident it reached the suffering mamas I was hoping to reach, and it met them right where they were - mid-breakdown of their own, no doubt. So, while I am a little sorry, and a lot embarassed, I am not even that sorry because the best thing for a child with RAD is to be loved and supported by a parent who has all their faculties. And the longer one is parenting a child with RAD, the less in-tact their faculties become.

I'm only a loose 30% sure I am using "faculties" in the correct context here, but we already discussed our writing standards and what you can expect here. Just be glad I'm not yelling swears at you for questioning me. Understand? Good.

So, here's what took place to bring me to the hysterical crescendo that was my written tantrum the other night. It's hard to know where to start, because well... my own birth makes the most sense as a starting point, but that feels a little heavy on the backstory. So, let's just start with the holidays. The holidays are like Baggagefest '08 for anyone with RAD kids. It is all kinds of trigger. There are gifts and parties and treats and all the other things that kids with attachment issues will sabotage because they don't believe they deserve good things. This, combined with the extra-special contradiction of demanding all the good things and an attitude of entitlement to all the good things, makes for a good time had by all. And by all, I obviously mean nobody within 6 square miles of us. 

Fast forward through the holidays. (I wish this were a real thing we could do but it's actually just a saying we use to reduce the backstory in crappy first drafts). We barely get through the holidays, and I'm still having PTSD flashbacks to our Christmas break. One particular low-point included the children vomiting all over the marble floors of city hall during a big family reunion photo session. We were dealing with RAD stuff, and normal big family with lots of kds during flu-season stuff. And then there was London.

As some of you may remember she had a rare blood disorder as a baby called Transient Erythroblastopenia of Childhood. So, when she starts to look pale and thin and worn down, we take it pretty seriously. We noticed that she had been looking and acting sick for a couple of months, and we did the routine bloodwork to ensure that the TEC was not back. It wasn't, but she continued to be very pale, acting more tired at school and at home. She was not herself, and her appetite was waning. She has a never-ending incurable rash on her leg, she has lost 6 pounds in four weeks, her thyroid levels were elevated and I discovered a few gray hairs on her head. 

She is seven years old.

In the midst of everything swirling around me in my normal life - holiday preparations, parent-teacher conferences, hosting family and friends, general parenting and care of five kids, Christmas shopping and cooking and hosting and the subsequent cleaning, all the vomiting, and the subsequent disinfecting, four January birthdays in our house, and the subsequent poverty - there were all the RAD behaviors, and then this slow-motion awareness at the center of all of the peripheral chaos, that London was not okay. 

I spent whole entire days in various doctor's offices watching them draw vial after vial of blood for tests that would give us inconclusive results. Until nine days ago when we were told that she came back as a strong positive for having Celiac Disease. (Feel free to punch a bagel in the face right this very minute in her honor.)

While we still don't have all the answers as to what is causing what, it looks like having a serious, genetic autoimmune disorder go untreated for great lengths of time can apparently cause your thyroid to poop its pants a little. The jury is out on the gray hair, but we are still looking at this from every angle. But, the bottom line is that we are beyond relieved that she has something that (while a huge dietary undertaking) is managable and not something more sinister or life-threatening.

See? You see now why I have been slowly building up to a mental breakdown? Because everything felt like it was falling apart. My oldest daughter, Annalee, became a teenager, then she broke her arm during a track race (which she finished like a total boss, btw) but the break went through the growth plate and they have to closely monitor it in order to prevent surgery.

My youngest, Jay, is still adjusting to his new hearing aids (and by that I mean, he is chewing his ear molds like gum when we aren't looking.)

And we are just trying to keep our heads above water on this RAD stuff. Then you throw in a gluten rash and no good pizza or soft bread for life? It's enough to make anyone crazy.

Here is what I do regret about my mental breakdown. I regret not reminding any and all of you who are in the thick of it, that it isn't always this low. It's not always this bad. There are times, however brief and however infrequent, where I am dellusional enough to believe that maybe we have turned a corner on this RAD stuff. Of course we never do, but there are small rests and there are little breaks in the chaos... just enough to let the light peek in for a moment. Just enough to make us hope again. 

So, that is my real regret. Not adding one more reminder. So here it is.

11) There is always hope. Even if it doesn't get better forever. Even if this is as good as it gets. There will be little bright spots - not because your child successfully manipulated someone with their deceptive charm - but because one teacher believed you. Or because one friend met you for lunch so you could sit in Panera and cry until you had a snot mustcahe. Or because you found a blogger who lacks a sense of appropriate boundaries and is crazy enough to say what you can't.

There will be those bright spots and Jesus knows when you need them most and he will deliver them to you in his mercy and good timing. Let's just hope they come before you publish that first draft. 

This is an actaul candid photo of me, caught in the wild, begging for my way. All signs of a mental breakdown were there, and ignored by those closest to me. I blame Tom, who probably gave me my way while in this state. Like an enabler.

To All the Other Haggard Moms Parenting a RAD Child

There is nothing so painful as unrequited love. And there is no love as powerful as a parent's love for their child. So when you love your child and he does not, can not, love you back... it might be the most heartbreaking scenario of them all. 

At least that is how I am feeling now... that (apart from losing a child) there is no pain I can fathom like having a living child that you cannot reach. 

Unrequited attachment, unabsorbed love.

And the world takes the salt of misunderstanding and rubs it into the proverbial wound. All kids lie, they say. Or steal, or hurt others, or themselves.

All kids want control. All kids say hurtful things.

All kids... 

He is not all kids. He is my kid. And I know him best. I know what makes him sicker. I know that treating him like "all kids" is one of those things.

I am exhausted. I am fed up. I am done explaining to people that yes, a child can be traumatized inside a womb. Google it. I am tired of trying to convince people that an unborn baby who develops in a bath of cortisol (stress hormones) instead of bonding chemicals will not respond to life or love in the same way as a typically developed child. I am all done explaining how exposure to different substances may harm a child's ability to bond and connect. I will not keep explaining that my child is both brilliant and unable to choose wisely. I will not keep asking for support only to be questioned or accused or dismissed. I am done.

Except that I'm not. I'm never done. As much as I freakin want to be done... I am not even close.

We are on four different waiting lists for various supports and schools and services. We have four siblings who are confused and wounded and are trapped between knowing that they must forgive, and their natural instinct to protect themselves from a person that causes them pain. 

I cannot describe the sight of a small, furious, hurting sister shaking her fists with the totality of her exasperation. The helplessness in her eyes, matched by my own.

 And all I can say is "I know baby. Me too." 

I cannot take away my son's pain. I can not make him feel unabandoned. I am not enough to fill in neurological gaps or heal his amygdala. My love is not that big. My love is not enough. YOUR love is not enough... so don't try to be his friend, or tell me to love him where he is at. I do. It's all I have done. And it isn't working. And I will keep doing it because there is nothing else to be done. But, all I can do is still not enough. 

I read the Bible so I know that God IS enough. I know that. But, right now... it's looking a lot more like

God + an unreasonable amount of time + so much pain in the interim = enough

I know that I sound hopeless. I know that all this is raw and scattered and probably sounds dramatic. But of one thing I am sure, there is at least one set of eyes on the other side of this screen that are filled with dysfunctionally relieved tears. One set of eyes that are seeing their feelings put into words, maybe for the first time.

So, I am writing to her. To the isolated, discouraged, helpless mom who's love is unrequited:

Hey. What's up? Thanks for somehow finding my blog. (Probably at 3am.) What you are going through is really, really hard. For you, and even harder for your child. You probably chose adoption because you wanted to be the family that helps to complete a child and now you are realizing that - surprise! - your family is being torn apart instead. Listen. Here are some things I need to hear on a regular basis and sometimes I have to say them to myself. 

1- You are not alone. There are a crap ton of us out here going through this, but most of us are too ashamed of ourselves, or too protective of our kids, to talk about it. There are a lot of anonymous blogs, but be careful, people are angry and exhausted and they sometimes bash their children. That's not okay, and it's not helpful for you.

2- You didn't cause this. (Unless you are an abusive dirtbag and you did cause this.) You didn't cause this.

3- Nobody, literally nobody, will understand what you are going through unless they are also a parent of a RAD kid. Social workers, psychologists, attachment therapists, adoption specialists, respite providers, felllow adoptees, friends, family... they all have their place, and they may even be excellent and able to help. They will not understand. Unless they are raising a child with RAD, or have done so in the past, they simply won't get it. 

4- A lot of people won't believe you. They probably will eventually, but until then, there will be a lot of advice and suggestions and have you tried's. There will be a lot of judgement. There will be a lot of people who try to "rescue" your child by loving on him, because they can't understand that you have done that, and it wasn't enough.

5- Get a door alarm and a video monitor. You need sleep, and peace of mind, and you need both of these to have a snowball's chance at either of them.

6- It's okay to go away. You need respite. Your other children need respite. Your hurting child needs respite. You all need to breath, and it's really okay to make room for it. It's not just okay, it's necessary.

7- Find a Lexi. A Lexi is a faithful friend, a champion for your self-care, a devoted caregiver, and defender of the weak and a giver of good gifts... like breaks from your child and cups of hot coffee. She doesn't have to be named Lexi, but mine is, and I couldn't do this without her. 

8- He can't love you. It's not that he won't, it's that he can't. He might want to love you, or he might actually love you, in his way, but he can't show it. He can't stop protecting himself from your love. Your love is scary to him, but it's also all you've got. And when you run out, it's okay to fake it. 

9- This is probably going to be the hardest thing you will ever do, and the biggest fight you will ever fight. You will probably not see results for a really long time. You might not ever see results. You must keep going. You signed up for this, even if you didn't know it at the time, and it is your job to keep going. And it's going to break your heart over and over and over. 

10- I know baby, me too.