The Party was a hit!

So, Leigh didn't show for the party. Didn't call.  Nothing. 

But it was a great toddler party-- sidwalk chalk, bubbles and punch balloons.  Lasted just long enough to wear them out, but not long enough for them to pitch fits. 

MoMo had a blast-- loves her new toddler camera.  She hasn't put it down since she got it, and she wouldn't take off the princess dress until we threatened her with no trick or treating if she wouldn't cooperate with us.  That child!  She'll dig in the dirt wearing a tiara and dangling earrings.  I love that she's such a mix of tomboy and princess. 

Anyway, haven't heard from Leigh, but the peace at home is nice, even if it's coming at such a price.

A Season of Awkward Miracles

A season of awkward miracles

Leigh is in residential, and it's the private one that's 20 minutes from home, instead of three or six hours. Somehow, someone in the state's Medicaid office borrowed a soul and stamped payment approval on the local private hospital... A decision that is what is in the best interest of our entire family, but probably the antithesis of everything in their rule books. 

I was in shock, and pretty much stayed there through packing, and check in, and even all the way home the evening we checked her in. Didn't cry, didn't even tear up. 

For almost a week. 

Until the night before Thanksgiving. 
That night I had to leave a little before Danae and their older bio sister who was in town for the week, and as I walked to the car, the grief and guilt hit me. 

And it hit hard. 

I put the babies in the van, and sat on the chiiled asphalt of the parking lot and sobbed.  

And sobbed until I couldn't breathe, took a hiccoughing breath and cried more. I didn't think I could cry that hard. 

Unfortunately that let loose a torrent of emotion that I have been fighting to keep under control since then. I find myself on the verge of tears I can barely control, and the silliest thing sets me off. This tenuous grip I have on my tear ducts needs something to shore it up. I'm open for ideas. 

I know intellectually that this is what is best for Leigh and for those around her. I know that she needs this.  I also know that this is our last stand, our very own little Alamo. 

If this doesn't work, I don't know if there are any other options, anything else that might help her find an internal steady ground. 

So for now, we are visiting four to five times a week, but the pace is killing me. I know I can't keep it up, but on the flip side I have to.  

When you're already exhausted, where do you find another wind? 

The Seven Things I Didn't See Coming... Last Week

So, instead of a wrap-up, I'm just going to start looking at the things that surprised me, the things that were unexpected. 

So here are my seven from the week of August 8.



1. I went to a drag show with my oldest daughter, Marie. I gave a drag queen money, which he/she took from my teeth with her (his?) tongue. No touching. And, as an unexpected bonus, I was sober.

2. Then, we went to a dance club. At 1:30AM. I have not danced, in a bar, around other people, since 1995. Again, I was sober. However, the man who kept grinding on my backside and elbowing everyone around us was not.

3. Leigh decided to take herself off her meds. She did okay for the first week, but this week, back at home, she’s not doing so well.  (You can loosely translate that as we want to kill her, but haven't found a way to get away with it yet.)

4. I found out that Leigh is having sex. Again. But with whom I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know. With her off meds, she is not taking pills daily, which means being on the pill is no longer the best, easiest option to keep her un-impregnated.

5. The philosophical dilemmas I’m having with #4 are many. First, Leigh is 15. Sex at 15 is a bad idea no matter what, and we’ve been battling sex issues with her since she moved in with us when she was six. Second, if she gets pregnant, there are obviously many other big, big issues. Like the fact that I don’t believe in abortion, and that mental illness runs deep in her bio-family. And she is completely incapable of caring for a child. She can’t remember to put on pajamas. I shudder to think how a child left to her care would survive. And I don’t want to raise another baby, but I feel very strongly about keeping families together. Borrowing trouble? Maybe. But I’d rather prepare for the worst and hope for the best.

6. One week left until I go back to work. Ugh. Summer vacation is great. Ending it is not.

7. I haven’t heard from Dawn in two weeks. She made the mistake of asking me to be honest with her, and then not liking the answer. She’s also ignoring everyone else, which only makes me feel marginally better.

That's it.

Next week comes with more court, more caseworkers, more therapy, and my last week of summer. 

Lessons From Vacation

Vacation is not as much fun as when I was a kid. Or before I was a parent. Or before I became an adoptive parent to special needs kids.

In the interests of spending time on the beach and time with my brother, getting to know his preggo wife, I rented a two bedroom condo with a pool and beach view.

It was a lot smaller than the pictures, a lot farther from the beach than the pictures, and very over decorated. Yes, it’s a beach condo. We do not need to be reminded of this fact with a fish or boat motif-ed in every square foot. But I birdwalk.


Here are the things I learned on vacation:

1. Not all technology definitions are equal. Our landlord for the week assured me before I paid him that we’d have Wifi. My brother works from home on-line, so he had to have the internet. I’m taking an on-line class and wanted to blog and stuff. So it was a priority. Our landlord’s definition of Wifi was to use the neighbor’s. The problem was that the neighbor changed the password and wouldn’t return our landlord's call. Brother spent a lot of time in a national-chain overpriced coffee shop. I just turned my school work in late. Lucky for me, I have an online prof who is very understanding.

2. Not everyone has the same level of tolerance for crazy that I have. You have heard from my blog that my children are kind of special. We have lots of things going on, and lots of behaviors that are outside the realm of what others might see as normal. My brother and his wife—Don’t get me wrong, I love them—they don’t live my life, or near my life, so they don’t know what normal is for us. Our normal level of crazy, I think, might have made them twitch. There were several moments when I caught them looking at me like I was either crazy or, well, crazy.

3. Not everyone has the same gag reflex. I think nothing of changing a diaper on the floor in the middle of the living room. And honestly, I don’t care how many people are there. Or what they’re doing. A wet baby is a screaming baby, and ending the screaming humanely, without me going to jail, is way more important to me than the fact that you’re eating squash casserole. Which, I must say, looks remarkably like what was in the diaper. Which is probably why you started gagging and running from the room. I’d apologize, but you’re pregnant, and you needed to learn that lesson before you finish procreating. Baby poo is gross. Accept that fact and life will be much easier for you in five months.

4. Your intoxicated brother can and will tell your kids stories about you that you don’t want them to hear. I really didn’t want my kids to hear about me giving my brother and all his friends condoms when they were in HS (no pregnancies in that graduating class, thank you very much). I didn’t want them to hear about us rescuing my drunken father from the back office of a bar. I didn’t want them to know I smoked, or drank, or dated before my husband. I was a perfect, virginal pure young lady prior to my wedding day. (Yeah right, but you know where I’m going here, right?) My brother, after a few drinks, decided to tell them all about my sordid past of teenage infatuations with bad boys and cheap wine coolers.

5. Whether or not the stories are true is beside the point. See number four. I deny everything. Those pictures are clearly photo-shopped.

6. Your time spent on the beach will decrease inversely proportionately to the number of children in diapers. I spent about $1000 on the condo, about $200 traveling, and about $400 on supplies from food to toilet paper to beach stuff. I spent less than two hours on the beach the entire week, despite the fact that it was less than a football field from our condo, and despite the fact that I was desperate for beach time. Two kids in diapers will do that. So will four teenagers who do not have any appreciation for the deeply brewing insanity inside their mom’s head.

7. If there is a chance for the crazy to come out in your kids, it will. We’d been there for five days. It was inevitable. Danae and Tonya (her “friend”) got into a screaming, yelling, cursing fight in front of the condo. Then it came inside where a table and chair got broken. It went back outside, and Danae and Leigh ended up in an actual physical fight. (I mentioned the place was small, right?)

There was lots of noise and yelling and stomping, as Leigh got more involved. CC just watched the whole thing, wondering what the heck she'd gotten herself into.  Security was called. I explained to the nice man with the patch on his arm that I have crazy teenagers, and they’ve almost got it out of their system. But that if they couldn’t settle down in the next ten minutes I’d be the one calling the police. Security didn’t seem convinced and Patch-man hovered under our balcony for about 45 minutes.

8. If the crazy comes out, and security gets involved, prepare to be embarrassed. Everyone around us looked at us funny for the two days left of our trip. At least back home, our neighbors can’t HEAR the crazy. In public, we usually take great pains to keep our crazy tucked away for later. And I’m sure that the stares had nothing to do with my openly gay daughter walking around holding hands with her sweetie, or Leigh’s friend CC, who is tatted and pierced and has pink hair, or our decidedly dark-skinned babies that none of us could have given birth to. I'm sure it was the ghetto-style brawl.  Right?

9. You will not want to cook as much as you plan to. We planned to eat out only once. My brother and his wife bought groceries for the rest of the week. We ate out four times. And they took the groceries home. Next summer, we just plan to only cook twice. It’s easier that way.

10.  Everything is more expensive the closer you get to the beach.  Brother and Preggo bought two back-pack lawn chairs from a Wings chain store. They spent $85.  Several giant chain stores sell the same things for about $20 each.  Gas was up 30 cents a gallon. And speaking of gallons, milk was outrageous at about $4 a jug. 

11. You will not be invited to rent again if any of the following happen: broken furniture, broken knick-knacks or complaints about your boogey-board and towel placement. I left the landlord a check to cover the damage, and asked him to call me. So far, my phone has not rung, and I am not holding my breath.

Oh well.

As Preggo pointed out, there are lots of places at the beach.

Odd How We Measure Progress

Once upon a time, 2002 to be exact, our daughter Leigh was crazy. She still is but in different ways, or in differently manifested ways. Here's a look at past and present, in order to measure progress: Then, we had to take all her furniture, including her mattress out of her room. (She had a blanket and a pillow.) This because everything became objects to use to hurt us with, or had been destroyed. I didn't know a seven year old could dismantle a dresser, and by dismantle, I mean destroy. All drawers in pieces, the frame literally shredded. In just a day. Now, she has furniture. It's grubby, but it's there and functional. And she's had it for more than a year. Then, we had to board over her windows and closet door. This because she was trying to punch her way through the glass of the windows, and had climbed to the top shelf of her closet and was playing with the light bulb socket. She had also ripped out the chair rails out of the walls with her bare hands and was using them to beat holes in the drywall, and we were afraid she'd do the same to the windows or the wall of her closet...behind which lie the plumbing to our home's only bathroom. Now, she has windows and a closet. The windows are bolted shut and the closet has no door, but it does have *some* clothing hanging appropriately in it. Then, she had no toys in her room because: A.) She'd destroyed most of them. B.) She'd use them to throw at us C.) She'd use them to destroy other things D.) She used them for a form of stress relief that starts with M and rhymes with perturbation. E.) All of the above. The answer is E. Now, she has some "stuff." A few books. A beat up stereo. Lots of pens, pencils and paper. Makeup and perfume. Lotions. A few decorations picked up at yard sales and Goodwill. Still beaten pretty hard, but most of it used appropriately. Then, she'd rage for hours until she passed out from exhaustion. Now, she just sleeps or eats when she's bothered or upset. Then, she'd pee, poop and vomit in her room ON PURPOSE and hide it. (Nasty story: The worst was when she managed to shove some under her boarded up closet door. We couldn't find the smell for weeks. It was gross. Just gross.) Now, she only has what we euphemistically call "hygeine issues." (Based on her refusal to make friends with this stuff we call "soap" at our house. However, this summer on Mom Bootcamp, we are addressing them. Then we had attachment therapy, play therapy, bi-weekly lunch sessions with a school counseling, a therapist, lots of family friends, a psychiatrist and meds. Now, we have two probation officers, in home and at school therapy, special school placement, a psychiatrist and meds. Very few family friends have survived our adoption, but the ones we have we know are the real deal. Then, she'd eat things she found on the sidewalk, attempt to smoke dropped cigarette butts off the street, and sampled drywall, carpet, rocks and most of her toys. Now, she eats any food she can find, and smokes anything she can find. Then, we attended church, and thought we had a good support system. Then, we also thought we had a good grasp on what we needed to do as parents. Now, we don't go to church, because having that support system means having to tell too many people too many stories and being judged way too much. Then, she had no friends. Now, she has no friends. ____________________________________ It's a really strange concept for normal families to grasp that an appropriate goal for an adopted child with issues could be "Leigh will not use her bedroom for a toilet in anger." For an adoptive family of a kid with issues, it's just another day at home. It's name is RAD, or mental illness, or, as one therapist explained it 'holes in her heart.' Either way, it's no fun, and all you can do is hope that, in the end, the progress you've seen is worth it. ___________________________________________ Inspired by today's post at This Work Stinks... Hang in there Mom! You're doing a great job!

A New First. Not a Good One.

I've never smoked pot. Neither has my husband. Yeah, we're kind of square. In fact, the extent of my law-breaking is limited to speeding tickets. I'm actually so scared of getting in trouble that the time I accidentally stole a pack of batteries in WalMart, I took them back inside to pay for them. I'm all about the law-abiding. Except for speed limits. Those I break. And often. So when Leigh came home from her first taste of freedom in a long time (yesterday at 8:10 PM. she was out for exactly 1:40 minutes, completely BAKED out of her mind, I was at a loss. I called, in this order: Hubby, at work. Probation Officer. Two of my friends. The Hospital, about drug tests. PO again. The police. Hubby was where I was emotionally: Done. The PO did not answer her phone. However the last time we had problems with Leigh (a bit of crazy aggressive violent type threats), PO told us to call the police to come take her to Juvie Jail. I called the hospital about having her drug tested. Get this: As her mom, I cannot take her to the ER and request a drug test because IT VIOLATES HER PRIVACY and they will not test her unless she's acting up. Hellooooo? She's stoned, of course she's not acting up. She wants to snack and go to bed!! I called the PO again to say I was calling the police. Still no answer or response. I called the police. It must have been a slow night in my town because all five cars on duty showed up at my house. The neighbors all stood in their driveways, watching to see what happened. Because let's face it... we've put on a few interesting shows in the past. Lucky for me (and good for local TV advertisors) it was a quiet call. According to the local police, they cannot simply arrest a juvenile offender, even one who is on probation, without a court order and lots of paperwork. I was not pleased. Then the officer told me that even had my darling Leigh been destroying my house and started attacking the officers that they couldn't arrest her and take her to juvie. At most, they could detain her until she calmed down. Do I need to point out the obvious flaws here, or shall I assume that you are at least a tiny bit righteously indignant on my behalf? So this morning, we took Leigh to the courthouse and met with her PO. PO was not thrilled with Leigh. And the longer we were there, the more Leigh's attitude got under her skin. PO asked if she could keep Leigh for the day. Yes ma'am. We wanted her in jail last night. So at the very least, she should spend a day with you. So we left her. Turns out, Leigh has been lying about some of the events of last night. Not only did they go buy the pot from some random guy someone told them was a dealer (dangerous much?), they smoked, in a car, WITH A BABY IN THE CAR. I don't know who the baby belonged to, but Leigh admitted there was one there. Now, I'm a foster mom of two babies. Two babies who were taken away from their mom because she's a pothead with a lot of other issues. And for Leigh to not only buy and use drugs, but to do so with a baby in the car... Well, I still can't look at her without having to sit on my hands to keep from choking her. And now, it is possible that Leigh will face additional criminal charges for the situation, if they can track down the two girls and the baby's parents. Felony child endangerment, probation violation. I'm not sure what this means for our foster babies, but I can say that I will lose sleep over it tonight. E0ven sadder: Leigh did not know the names of the girls she was getting high with. (And in my parental defense, I dropped her off at a friend's house, under the guise of her eating dinner with her friend, her friend's boyfriend, and her friend's mom. I got played.) And having cried off and on all day, I am so ready for bed. Tomorrow is the last day of school, and my students will be crazed, and I get to come home and deal with my own Crazed. That is, if she doesn't get arrested at school. The PO was really irritated with the lying and was still trying to decide what to do when I picked Leigh up at 4. So here's my question: How does a parent punish a child who cares about nothing? She doesn't really experience pain, plus she's a cutter with a severe abuse history, so spanking or (as the nice police man suggested) "just kicking her ass" is out of the question. She doesn't care about anything she owns, so taking her belongings has no impact. She has no friends, and doesn't get invited anywhere, so grounding isn't an option. I'm at a loss, and my eyes are burning from crying. And I have no idea what to do. I have dealt with crazy, violent, nasty, gross, hateful, loud, smelly, painful, pinching, biting, public masterbation, inappropriate toileting, hairpulling, name calling, throwing things and all out mental illness, but the patently illegal? No way. So now what?

Bitch Mom

Tonight, I unveiled the new Mommy Me... Bitch Mom. At least in Leigh’s eyes. She didn’t want to play nicely with others (i.e. make her room stop smelling badly and looking like a homeless man’s dumpster), so I told her to stay in her room while I was gone. And left. With the three other daughters.

She is fifteen, and I am tired of my life—of all our lives—playing second fiddle to her mental illnesses. Oppositional Defiant Disorder, Reactive Attachment Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Anxiety, Depression, Self-Mutilation, General Pain in the Ass Refuses to Do Anything She’s Asked or Be Nice to Anyone Syndrome.

She is so angry, with every breath it just oozes off of her, and I wonder when she’ll snap. She lies, with every word she speaks. And I'm tired of all of it.

So now, the answer is NO. To everything.

No. No. No.

No.

No, you may not _____, until you have _____. No ifs, no ands, no buts, no negations, NOTHING. Until you can be nice, feel free to stay in your smelly room. Feel free to sleep 24-7. Feel free to wear the same clothes day in and day out, and not bathe. But until you no longer smell like unwashed hooker clothes and look homeless, you will not get in my car to go anywhere with me.

I will not fight you about the cigarettes, alcohol and weed you sneak every chance you get. But if you indulge these on my property, by GodAllahBuddha, your probation officer will be called, as will the local PD and they will haul your ungrateful, ever-expanding ass to juvie.

I don’t care that I can’t have you committed anywhere. I don’t care that you aren’t suicidal or homicidal enough to get the damned insurance company to pay attention—eventually, mental illness or not, you have to make a decision.

YOU have to decide if you want a life, if you want to do more than just live. Or not. And nothing I do or don’t do will fix that. I will continue to lay out your meds in the morning. I will continue to buy food. I will continue to make sure you wake up to get on a bus. I will continue to love you no matter what. But I have learned that I don’t have to like you. And I don’t remember the last time I really liked you.

But from now on, if you want something, the answer is no, unless you meet my terms. I don’t care how crazy you are, it will be my way.

Because I AM the mom, and I’m in charge, damn it, whether you like it or not. And if you don’t?  Oh well. You’ve survived worse.

And I can lock my bedroom door.

Why you do the things you do? (very, very long...)

I’ve heard it called many things—Crusader Complex, Bleeding Heart, Sucker, Stupid, Trying to Save The World, A Wonderful Thing, a Blessing, Crazy.

And they are all true. All of those describe what people have said to me about my family, and our adoption and fostering. “It takes special people.” Oh yes, very special. “I could never do what you’re doing.” Yes you could. You’ve just chosen a different path. Hope it works for you. “You are such a blessing.” Maybe, but mostly, I feel cursed. “You must be so patient.” You have noooooo idea, babe. “Is it hard?” So many metaphors, so little time. “What do your real children think?” Um, since I gave up Glen, my pretend friend, in third grade, I haven’t really dealt with not-real people.

I’ve been following with interest the traffic jam that has become the life and times of the wonderful moms at Navigating the Maze: Adoptive Parenting and Life for about two weeks now. They are on a path very similar to mine, and are having many of the same problems we have had and are continuing to have. The day-to-day trudge that is the life of a RADmom is one that so few people can understand and relate to, that I felt both relieved and guilty that I was glad to find so much kinship among bloggers with horrible kids.

I say horrible kids, and some of you out there might think less of me. Oh well. I really don’t care. You probably haven’t walked the path we have in the last nine years. And unless you have, you can’t judge us.

My husband and I have horrible kids. Our first one is Leigh.

Leigh has been psychiatrically hospitalized three times. The first time in kindergarten, the second time in first grade, and the third time at the end of 8th grade. We’ve been trying unsuccessfully to have her admitted long term for a year now. If she isn’t actively suicidal or homicidal, no one will admit her because of the cost of long term psychiatric treatment. And that’s with TWO complete coverage plans. In the past nine years, we have:

1. Been bitten, spit on, puked on (intentionally and repeatedly), had things thrown at us, and had our hair pulled out.

2. We’ve been every horrible thing you can think of from a bad prison gang—all from a very cute little girl.

3. She ripped the chair rails out of her wall when she was 6 and tore out drywall down to the studs.

4. We had to board up her windows—she tried to punch through the windows after we bolted them shut.

5. For about three years, it took both my husband and me to hold her while she freaked out and raged.

6. We had to board up her closet—she kept climbing up onto the top shelf and attempting to dismantle the light fixtures, and throwing things at us.

7. After we boarded up her closet, we had to un-board it several times to get the shit out of it that she crammed under the door.

8. We had to rip the carpet up and throw it out. Use your imagination. Yes. And that too.

9. We had to reverse the door knob so she couldn’t lock us out.

10. We had to take down and pack away up most of our antiques and family pictures after she started systematically breaking and destroying them.

11. She has destroyed EVERYTHING we have ever bought her (toys, furniture, bedding, clothing, bicycles, books, school supplies, etc)… except her ipod. That she loves. Headphones, however, are fair game.

12. She ruins new clothes intentionally. And wears dirty stuff continuously because she refuses to wash her clothes.

13. She’s been a cutter since she was six, and is on probation for having blades at school and showing another kid how to cut himself.

14. She has run away on three different occasions, and that doesn’t count the times she has just disappeared to attempt to hang out with people in the neighborhood, or gotten off the bus and taken off for a few hours.

15. She steals from everyone in the family, including her sisters, parents and grandparents.

16. In the past two years, she has had SIX xrays on her right hand because she punches wall so hard her knuckles swell up, turn purple, and look horrible. And because I hate how people look at me when I don’t take her to the doctor for the obvious answer, “No, it’s not broken, and you really shouldn’t punch walls” I take her for xrays.

17. She once tried to set the house on fire… toilet paper and matches on the bathroom floor.

18. If she gets a bug bite, it turns into an infected, oozing mess because she refuses to wash and continuously picks at it.

That mom from Tennessee who sent her adoptive son back to Russia? I don’t approve of her methods, but I have stood at that breaking point and asked myself if being a mom is really worth it. The longest, hardest conversation my husband and I ever had was about whether or not we were going back to the hospital to pick up our daughter and bring her back home. There but for the grace of GodAllahBuddha….

We did go back and get her. Twice. And honestly, it was not because of a deep emotional attachment, or an unbreakable mother-daughter bond. It was because a very nice social worker convinced us that if we didn’t, Leigh didn’t have any more chances.

I’m not sharing this for sympathy-- I’ve learned that sympathy is for wimps. It is completely useless. It does nothing but make the offerers feel better about their own lives, and the receivers feel worse about their own.

You want to help a RADmom? Offer to babysit—knowing that the kid is crazy, no matter how cute and harmless she looks. She'll probably be really nice to you.

Offer to order pizza one night for that mom who, after working AND dealing with the horrible child, is just too freaking tired to cook.

Offer a non-judgmental hug.

Offer to come sit at her house with her and put up with the bullshit going on there because in reality, raising kids is not forever. The kid will eventually leave or get locked up, and the parents will be left to look around the trailer park and wonder where the tornado went. And at that moment, they will need friends more than they ever had before.

I’m not sharing this to earn cool points, either. I gave up on being cool a LONG time ago. Right about the time I had to apologize to another parent for Leigh's treatment of her child. Right about the time I called the police on my 7 year-old daughter for stealing from us. Right about the time I had to teach my middle school aged kids how to use condoms because they were already having sex. Right about the time I had to apologize to my mom, a week after her hysterectomy, after Leigh head-butted her abdomen. (And yes, she knew about the surgery, mom had shown her the stitches.)  To my mom's credit, Leigh is not dead.

What Eema and Abba are going through is part of what a silent majority of adoptive parents experience, but we don’t tend to go public with our battles. Maybe we should. Maybe people need to know what our lives are like behind the closed doors and drawn blinds. But we don’t talk about how hard it is. How exhausting and draining, and how much it strains the relationships we have with people we care about.

In my case, I haven’t gone public for lots of reasons. I never wanted Leigh to be able to say we hadn’t done everything in our power to help her “get better.” I never wanted people to look at her any weirder than they already do. I have always held on to a sliver of hope that one day, Leigh will wake up and be “normal.” And honestly, I hadn’t NEEDED to go public until recently. And for now, my little anonymous blog is all the public I’ll go.

I’m sharing this peephole-glimpse into ONE of my daughters because Fosterabba is right—Love ISNT enough for these kids. And after adopting three, I am almost convinced that NOTHING will ever be enough for them.

Think about what follows here, and bear with my very blunt assessment. These kids come from crap. Absolutely the lowest crap on the crap scale. Abuse. Neglect. Drugs. Alcohol. Violence. Lack of supervision. Untreated mental illness. Generations of poverty and ignorance and incest.

Most people don’t know exactly what it takes to have a child taken away from their birth family permanently. It’s a lot. Abuse like the parent has been pimping out the child in exchange for drugs. Abuse like letting your kids drink and do drugs because it conks them out so you can party. Or punishing them with hot water, cigarette burns, being locked in small spaces (closets or bathrooms) for hours. Or days. Or being locked outside over night in their underwear. Neglect like a baby who hasn’t been bathed in two weeks, or bottles that have never seen hot, soapy water. Or toddlers left in a crib all day while the mama goes out to party. (all true stories, btw, from my kids, or those of other adoptive parents I know.)

And for the kids, this is normal. That is the way everyone lives because IT IS ALL THEY HAVE SEEN.

Then suddenly, they’re taken by people with good intentions who make them live with other people with good intentions, who don’t do any of the things that they think are normal. So they think the new people are the weirdos. Not them.

My husband asked me a few weeks ago which of our kids was MOST likely to take care of us in our old age. That gave me a very long, very depressing pause, and gave me even more motivation to work our debt snowball and save like crazy. My answer was that I didn’t have one. I can’t see any of our kids either caring enough about us to care for us in our dotage, or being able to, financially or physically.

So the question becomes, why? Why do seemingly ordinary people go to such extraordinary measures to become parents? To keep their crazy children?

For me, I’ve never wanted anything more than I wanted to be a mom. When I couldn’t get pregnant, I really and truly wished I were dead. Or would be stricken with some horrible disease that would either kill me, or be bad enough that I could blame infertility on it, and not on my own rotten plumbing and genetics. We stopped infertility treatments before surgery and meds because we came this conclusion: Did we really want to work so hard to pass along our completely screwed up genetics? Seemed kind of mean when we looked at it like that.

I have never quit anything in my life, or let something I wanted to achieve pass by because it was too hard. I have sort of put parenting my children in that same category. I haven’t given up because I just don’t do that. However, hubby and I have begun a countdown and a to-do list for when the last crazy child leaves the house. It’s helped keep us sane lately.

I tell people all the time that I don’t regret anything about how our family has turned out. But if I’m really honest, in that dark little corner of my heart, I know I’m lying.

I regret that my career has been tanked by Leigh and Dawn. I regret not having been able to get my doctorate because I couldn’t leave our teenagers at home alone for a few hours once a week. I regret all the money we’ve wasted on therapy that hasn’t worked and replacing clothing and furniture and bedding. (For Leigh, we have purchased an average of two new mattresses a year since we got her. Again, use your imagination. Yes, that. And that. I know. Gross.)

So I’m writing this tonight, and wiping the tears off my face, wishing I could hug Abba and Eema because they are so much more honest with themselves and other people than I am. And I know how they feel about Danielle, because I feel the same way about Leigh and Dawn.

Patience, Girl! Patience.

Last night, I did something I don't think any self-respecting mom ought to do: I rented a hotel room for my 18 year-old daughter and her Dumbass Boyfriend. 

The Backstory:  Dawn and Dumbass Boyfriend have been attempting independence since the end of January.  They have not been very successful.  So unsuccessful, in fact, that she is back home with us until June 1, when, presumably, they will have saved enough money to move into a cheap apartment on the bad side of town. 

They have officially worn out their welcome everywhere, and found that short of a homeless shelter, they had nowhere to stay.  DB cannot stay at our house for several reasons. One, I don't like the whole shacking up thing, and I am not going to allow it in my roof on my sofa, that I have to sit on every day. Ew.  Gross.  STOP IT OVERLY VIVID IMAGINATION!!  STOP IT NOW!! 

Second, he is out on bond, pending (at last count) eight felony charges, including aggravated assault, burglary, theft, etc.  (Beating up and robbing drug dealers, even though they are criminals, is still against the law. Weird, huh?)  We have foster kids, and two other teenage daughters, and quite simply, I don't trust him or want him around. 

Last night we had a long heart to heart with both of them.  He agreed to go stay with his grandma and work for his uncle to save up money.  She agreed to stay with us to find a job and save up money. (Oh yeah, she lasted a week at the other job.  She got sick , took two weeks off and is shocked that they don't want her back.)  If they were able to do that, we would pay for the deposit and first month's rent on the little shady-side-of-town apartment.

Assuming they're both working, they can make it easily on minimum wage. And if/when he goes to prison, she'll struggle, but she'll be able to maintain her independence and keep the apartment.

After all that was decided, we sent them to the Microtel, and his grandma picked him up this afternoon.

It's a win-win for everyone except my bank account. He has time to prove to us that he is not as much of a Dumbass Boyfriend as we think he is, and she has time to save up money to rent the place on her own.  (I'm so optimistic, aren't I?)

Actually, what I'm feeling is hypocritical.  I don't want her shacking up with him, but I sure as hell don't want her to marry him.  I want her to be on her own because keeping up with her mood swings and drama is worse the PMS week at the Bunny Ranch.  But I don't want her on her own with him. 

I look at who I dated in this time period of my own life and think, "Holy God, what was I thinking, and why the hell did You let me continue to think it for so long?"

On the flip side, both my and Bill's parents helped us a lot on the way, even when I'm pretty sure they didn't like us very much.  Granted, we are neither one of us felons or dropouts with IQs that border mentally retarded.  (That, sadly, is NOT hyperbole. If it were, I'd feel a little better about the whole thing.) But that's all beside the point. 

So here I am, wondering if we're doing the right thing.  I mean really, what kind of parent rents her teenage daughter a hotel room?  Or helps her daughter prepare to move out with a Dumbass Boyfriend.  At least I have someone to talk to, my dear, dear blog.  You, and all three of my followers. 

Now my only question is, where's she gonna sleep?  We gave her bedroom to the babies!

Weekly Wrap-up

Weirdest feeling: Being peed on by NaNa as I was carrying her from their bedroom to the bathroom for a bath.

Biggest Frustration: Leigh spent most of the weekend in her room because we've asked her to clean it a gazillion times and it still hadn't gotten done. We aren't neat freaks, but she has really, really odiferous feet.  The smell like backwoods road kill in August.  And she doesn't clean her shoes. So they smell like death forgot to shower for a few days after shoveling manure on a pig farm.  And when she wears socks, they smell just as bad. And since she doesn't do her laundry unless we threaten to call her probation officer, her room just reeks.  And when I have to put a towel across the bottom of her door to keep the stench in her room, it's time to do something about it.  It would probably help if she would wash more frequently, but that's another blog post, one about the delights of living with a teen-aged RADdish.

Biggest TMI Moment: Danae asked me if she could get a Brazillian wax.  Did I really need to know that my 16 year old is unhappy with the hair situation down there?  And do I want to contemplate WHY she thinks she needs a Brazillian wax?

Stupidest Work Moment: A student at my school got arrested for throwing his federally-provided free breakfast toast at the school resource officer. 

Most Irritating Moment: Realizing that Lizzie the Hobo Dog STILL has fleas.  We have tried everything and can't get rid of the damn things. 

Meanest Mom Moment: Dawn called last night.  She has a horrible double ear infection, sinus infection and cold (brought on mostly from living in a 40 year old camper with five other people who don't clean.) The infections were so bad that her ears were bleeding.  Anyway, she called because she and the dirtbag she ran off with are crashing at some distant relatives of his, and insted of staying home to take care of his still-feverish sweetie, he went off with some friends to listen to a band and drink a lot of beer. She called me, crying, because she didn't feel good, dirtbag left her with people she doesn't know, and she hates being sick with no one to take care of her. 

Instead of offering to rescue her, I said, "What do you need from me tonight? Advice, someone to vent to, or something else?" She tearfully admitted that she wanted me to come get her so she could sleep at home. I said, "Then you need to ask." She didn't.  Still won't ask for help.  I gave her a healthy pause.  When I'd paused long enough, I added, "If you decide to ask, don't wait too late because I can't drag the babies out in the middle of the night unless it's an emergency."  She quietly told me she loved me, and that she'd let me know. I haven't heard from her since.

Other frustrating things: 

1. DFCS (Department of Family and Children's Services, pronounced Dee-Fax) still hasn't paid us for February and March.  This isn't a money-grubbing thing. For each baby, we get reimbursed $10 a MONTH for diapers, and paid $14.60 a day.  Diapers are $20-30 a WEEK, and that daily stipend helps cover the rest.   
2. The babies saw birth mom for the first time in about three weeks on Monday, and MoMo was a wreck.  For three days.  Nightmares. Clingy.  Complete pain in the ass behaviorally.
3. Steph still refuses to do a chore to completion. Hell, most of the time, we can't even get her to get started.
4. My kitchen is still dirty. 
5. My laundry is still not done.

(I know I should clean more. Do chores more. But there is only so much time in the day, and energy in the bank.  I have found that I have been a happier EVERYTHING since I started writing again, so now I'm in search of ways to find a balance between what I need to keep me sane and what me children need to avoid E-coli.)

Positive Notes: 

1. Marie's new haircut looks amazing. 
2. Leighdidn't break anything this week, and has not self-mutilated that we can tell in about a month. 
3. Danae did apologize for her completely bitchy behavior.  I'm not sure if it was genuine or not, but I'll take what I can get.
4. I broke down and bought a pair of Sketcher's Shape-ups.  Jury's still out on whether I like them or not.
5. MoMo is getting better with ThankYou, but still completely refuses to say please, and throws a temper fit if you ask.  She is a strong-willed little thing. 
6. NaNa will carry on a cooing and giggling conversation with you after feeding.  It's so damn cute it makes up for all the other crap, pee and barf she dishes out. 

So there you have it. Way more about my week than you probably wanted to know.  Admit it, you Peeping Tom you, you LIKED it!

Crazy Lying and Epiphanies

Tonight was a verbal slugfest, a bout of epic proportions, between 16 year-old Danae and The Mom, AKA me. 

The topic(s): 

1. Why, dear, dear, Danae, have you been lying about staying for tutorial? 
2. And where oh where have you been going after school? 
3. And with whom and for what purpose........ for the past two weeks?
4. And for GodAllahBuddha's sake, why would you do that to us knowing that we have to drag the babies out and across town to pick you up? 
5. And, why would you NOT take the bus home today, after clearly being told to, and then lie about how you got home? 

Now, I know she did not take the bus home because I waited for it to arrive, saw that she was not on it, and proceeded to take her sisters shopping and out to dinner. 

To the casual reader, dinner and shopping might seem like a callous response to a possible runaway-missing persons type situation involving one's own child.  However, I have some experience in these matters and realize that getting all wound up does nothing but give me a headache and turn my face red.  Plus, I have two other adopted kids who have run away for a combined total of six times, and, as a Homo Sapiens Sapiens, I can be taught. Eventually.

So Danae finally called my cell from the house phone at 6:28 and tried to convince me that she had indeed ridden the bus home.  Her bus arrives in our neighborhood between 4:55 and 5:10.  I told her to reconsider her story and go with the truth, as she would be in less trouble in the long run. (Sidebar, your honor:  I never believed that argument from my mom when I was a teen, so I'm not sure why I keep trying to convince my kids of its veracity, but that's a whole other blog I guess, sometime when I have no fodder... Things We Do Because Our Parents Did Them.  Remind me to write that....)

Anyway, birdwalk. Back to subject. 

It comes to this:  I have irrefutable truth and proof on my side.  She has "That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

But then she realized (because she is much smarter than the average teenager) that I must have something on her, because then she said, "I did ride the bus home. I just got off at an earlier stop, called Amanda to pick me and bring me the rest of the way because I didn't want to get home so late.  But then, Amanda couldn't come right away, so I was late."

Not once in this fiasco did she call me to let me know she was okay. I had other sources tell me they knew she was alive, but that they didn't know where.  But she did call and text Amy, and only Amy--definitely not me. I'm pretty sure that's because she knew she was going to get in trouble, so she might as well avoid hearing it on the phone.

Now, ask me if I believe that story. 

Seriously. Do I look THAT stupid?  Of course I don't believe her. I think she didn't want to ride the bus, DID want to hang out with friends, so she did what she wanted.  And as I thought,  the epiphany hit... 

It's something that I should have known or at least figured out WAY sooner.  Kids with attachment disorders, also known as Reactive Attachment Disorder, don't trust.  They don't believe in parental benevolence in any form, and don't for a second think that you have their best interests at heart.  And trying to convince any of them to trust is almost like asking Boppo the Chimp to reproduce Mona Lisa.  Messy and impossible.  And while not a total waste of time, but definitely not the best way to spend an afternoon, or year or a decade.

So why would I ask that of a young lady who is at the point in her life where she is trying to prove her independence and pull away from her family?  Duh.  Now who's got issues? 

I'm asking her to bond and pull closer when biology and society are telling her to pull away.  Or she could just have doubled up on her daily dose of Pain in the Ass Pills and decided to see if she could pull off another lie. 

No wonder we argue so much.

In the meantime, she wants to know if she can go spend the night with a friend and have her phone back. 

Attachment disorder or not, I'm thinking no.

An introduction

So here I am. 
Waiting for inspiration.
Or like the kid on "The Incredibles" for something amazing.

In the meantime, let me introduce us. 

I am Mom.  Wife.  Teacher.  Unofficial social worker.  Unlicensed, smart-ass therapist.  Writer-wannabe. 

The other players in this silliness are as follows:

Hubby--Husband.  The tall bald guy, and a big cup of awesome sauce.

Marie-- Oldest daughter. Age 23.  Mother of Grandson. Married to JC. We never officially adopted her, because she aged out of foster care when her younger sister moved in with us. However, the only thing missing is the paperwork.

Dawn-- Next daughter. Age 18.  Bio sister to Marie.   We got her when she was 12, and she is currently surfing other people's sofas because mom and dad won't let her shack up at home with her Dumbass Boyfriend.  She just got a job as a waitress.  It's been two whole days and she's kept it, so we'll see how that goes.

Danae--Next daughter.  Age 16. Cheerleader, artist, wants to be a doctor.  Generally, a smart kid with a HUMONGOGINORMOUS attitude. But then, after 18 different placements, I think she's earned the right to be pissy from time to time.

Leigh-- Next daughter. Biosister to BB. Age 15.  We're her tenth set of parents, and we got her when she was six.  She is a self described freak, who cuts, cusses, and generally carries on as much as possible without visiting the Gray Bar Hotel.   She attends a "special school" for people who have problems behaving in regular school, has a probation officer and a standing appointment with juvenile court every three weeks. However, she too is very smart and a talented artist.

Momo-- 18 month old foster baby.  Cute as a baby penguin and about as coordinated. She has eyelashes that could start a small supermodel riot, and the most engaging smile I've ever seen.

NaNa- 9 week old foster baby.  Just learned how to smile this week. 

And in that mix of beauty, brains and general mayhem, we have two half-mexicans, two mostly black, one mutt of unknown origin and one who claims to be a quarter black. As for the parents, we're very white, and mostly look nothing like our kids.  We have fun with that sometimes.

Mixed in there also are several cases of Reactive Attachment Disorder, PTSD, a sprinkling of bipolar, the possibility of borderline personality and some galloping cases of depression, self-mutilation and anxiety.  Needless to say, life is never boring. 

So here we are ...  our little, made-from-scratch-trying-to-be-happy family. 

I think I've found my amazing. 
How about you?
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Some things I'll post here will be daily doses of the craziness that is my life. Others will be random stuff I've written in response to my life-- some old, some new. 

Enjoy the popcorn, prop up your feet.  It's an interesting show.