I have seen other mommies blog on there kiddos birthdays so i thought I would try it.
Favorite Foods: You like most everything. Rice, refried beans, avacado, fruits, broccoli, cheerios, zuchini, tomatoes, cheese, and egg salad. You love Ritz crackers and hate turkey.
Favorite Things to do: Wrestle! You LOVE to be rough housed and thrown around. You like playing peek a boo. You love bath time and swinging at the park.
Things you are not so crazy about: riding in the jogging stroller, sleeping, tummy time (I think this is why even though you are right on the cusp of crawling you haven't done it yet.)
Favorite songs: Jesus loves me, The itsy Bitsy Spider, Patty Cake. You love music, in church during worship you get quiet and stare.
Milestones: you have lots of teeth, you clap, you sit up on your own and you are about to crawl!
Things that make you special: You are super active and verbal. You love to move and talk loudly! You laugh and smile easily. I think this is a great quality and something I have always loved about your Daddy!
Favorite toys: You like this talking dog things every time it makes a noise you grab it and bite its nose. You also like to play with your hair pick.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
I want you to understand that we are different but treat us like we are the same is that so much to ask?!
This title is funny. I mean, that’s a crazy request, right? Well, it's one I wish I could make, almost on a daily basis.
As a foster-almost-adoptive mother, sometimes I feel like a second-rate mom. Sometimes you get the vibe that if you didn't give birth to a child and are a foster parent your relationship with them is less than legitimate – not quite “real”. I had many people say to me when I got Isaiah: "Now you get to be a real mother." Depending on the day, I might have responded: "Oh, if I had known I wasn't a real mom before, I probably would have done it differently" or "Oh, so I guess those diapers I changed weren't real, the vomit I cleaned wasn't real, the tears I dried weren’t real, and the bedtime stories I read weren't real?" And if I was feeling more merciful: "No, now I get to be a forever mom." And even as an adoptive mother, I get the old standby: "Do you have/want any children of your own?" The only way I can describe this is like being cut with a knife.
I look down at my precious son and I think: How could any child be more my own? I have prayed for THIS child for as long as I can remember. I have dreamt about THIS child for years. THIS child is the one the Lord promised and delivered to me. THIS is the child I thought about as I jogged through my neighborhood before dawn with tears streaming down my face as Queen’s “Somebody to Love” blared on my iPod.
How could any child belong to me more than he does? He is truly a miracle (read his story here). He is MY son; God brought him to ME. He IS my own.
As a loving warning to those who know (and even love) adoptive and foster parents: I will say this now: PLEASE remove from your language those questions and statements which identify the obvious differences between our children and us.
I know that most of the time, the intention is not bad. But the words cut deeply into a mother’s spirit. When I think about Isaiah being old enough to understand those questions aimed at his identity as my son – the one God provided, I'm horrified at how they will make him feel. How will they make him feel about himself? How will they make him feel about me as his mother? About us as a family? As good as the intention behind the questions, the words seek to divide and separate me from my son.
Please understand, and be sensitive to the fact that adoptive families are different. And we are well aware of our differences. Adoption, by nature, is born out of the loss of, and gain of, an identity. We, like other foster and adoptive families, are seeking to reconcile and redeem these children to an identity as loved and loving family members and as children of God. And kids who have been removed from their home have experienced trauma that highlights already obvious differences. They will probably behave strangely at times. They will almost definitely be delayed. They will almost always have some poor coping skills. As a result, people – strangers and friends alike – let show with their faces and words that my family is different. I do not let my kids get away with stuff simply because of their subtle and obvious differences, but I also parent from the understanding that they have endured in the last 4 months, 6 months, 18 months, 2 years, and 4 years, things that you and I can't even begin to imagine. So, they may suck their thumb longer, have issues with men, may disrespect women, may shovel their food in their mouths, and sleep with all the lights on. It may be different from “the norm” – but really, don’t we all come from families closer to dysfunction than perfection? Trust that we are working on undoing the damage done and praying against long-term effects and renewing with hope what is good.
Remember these little ones are survivors, and regardless of differences, if we had been exposed to the things that they have, sucking our thumbs would be the least of our worries
As a foster-almost-adoptive mother, sometimes I feel like a second-rate mom. Sometimes you get the vibe that if you didn't give birth to a child and are a foster parent your relationship with them is less than legitimate – not quite “real”. I had many people say to me when I got Isaiah: "Now you get to be a real mother." Depending on the day, I might have responded: "Oh, if I had known I wasn't a real mom before, I probably would have done it differently" or "Oh, so I guess those diapers I changed weren't real, the vomit I cleaned wasn't real, the tears I dried weren’t real, and the bedtime stories I read weren't real?" And if I was feeling more merciful: "No, now I get to be a forever mom." And even as an adoptive mother, I get the old standby: "Do you have/want any children of your own?" The only way I can describe this is like being cut with a knife.
I look down at my precious son and I think: How could any child be more my own? I have prayed for THIS child for as long as I can remember. I have dreamt about THIS child for years. THIS child is the one the Lord promised and delivered to me. THIS is the child I thought about as I jogged through my neighborhood before dawn with tears streaming down my face as Queen’s “Somebody to Love” blared on my iPod.
How could any child belong to me more than he does? He is truly a miracle (read his story here). He is MY son; God brought him to ME. He IS my own.
As a loving warning to those who know (and even love) adoptive and foster parents: I will say this now: PLEASE remove from your language those questions and statements which identify the obvious differences between our children and us.
I know that most of the time, the intention is not bad. But the words cut deeply into a mother’s spirit. When I think about Isaiah being old enough to understand those questions aimed at his identity as my son – the one God provided, I'm horrified at how they will make him feel. How will they make him feel about himself? How will they make him feel about me as his mother? About us as a family? As good as the intention behind the questions, the words seek to divide and separate me from my son.
Please understand, and be sensitive to the fact that adoptive families are different. And we are well aware of our differences. Adoption, by nature, is born out of the loss of, and gain of, an identity. We, like other foster and adoptive families, are seeking to reconcile and redeem these children to an identity as loved and loving family members and as children of God. And kids who have been removed from their home have experienced trauma that highlights already obvious differences. They will probably behave strangely at times. They will almost definitely be delayed. They will almost always have some poor coping skills. As a result, people – strangers and friends alike – let show with their faces and words that my family is different. I do not let my kids get away with stuff simply because of their subtle and obvious differences, but I also parent from the understanding that they have endured in the last 4 months, 6 months, 18 months, 2 years, and 4 years, things that you and I can't even begin to imagine. So, they may suck their thumb longer, have issues with men, may disrespect women, may shovel their food in their mouths, and sleep with all the lights on. It may be different from “the norm” – but really, don’t we all come from families closer to dysfunction than perfection? Trust that we are working on undoing the damage done and praying against long-term effects and renewing with hope what is good.
Remember these little ones are survivors, and regardless of differences, if we had been exposed to the things that they have, sucking our thumbs would be the least of our worries
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Do not be anxious
A couple of days ago, I opened up my oh-so-convenient email devotional and got this scripture:
Philippians 4:6 (The Message) 6-7
Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.
Then, that same afternoon, my husband sent me a text with the same scripture. I didn't really pay attention at the time. But this morning, at 4:15 am - when sleep escapes me, I am paying attention.
I'm worried.
I woke up with a start at 2:00am. You know, when you get that terrible feeling, like when your plane is taking off and you can't remember shutting the garage. Or when your phone rings in the middle of the night. Or when you just know you have forgotten something really important. I laid there for a moment, then realized what it was. Matt and I were paying bills the night before and after we were done we were in suprisingly good shape. (By the way, even though I am still receiving a paycheck, we are not touching it so we can get used to living on one income. ) I realized at 2:00 am I had forgotten to write down our mortgage and our monthly giving to the church. I got up and refigured what was left for the month. Let me just say friends - it's bleak. Very bleak.
I'm worried.
I want to take control of the situation. I want to crunch those numbers into submission. I want to go back up to my principal and tell him I have changed my mind and that I don't know what I was thinking. I want to take in more foster kids. I want to ask Matt to take a job that maybe he loves less but makes more. I want to take control. That's what my flesh wants to do.
But then I read:
Philippians 4:6 (The Message) 6-7
"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life. "
and
James 1: (The Message) 5-8
"If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and won't be condescended to when you ask for it. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought. People who "worry their prayers" are like wind-whipped waves. Don't think you're going to get anything from the Master that way, adrift at sea, keeping all your options open."
And that sounds pretty good. I mean, "People who "worry their prayers" are like wind-whipped waves." Who wants to be that girl? I will be honest folks, I do not trust God to provide but I want to. I have been self-reliant for too long. I think the more we rely on ourselves, the smaller we make Him in our lives. The more capable we think we are, the less capable we think He is.
I want to be smaller, I want Him to be bigger in my life. I want to value what He values. I want Him to determine what my needs are and how they are gonna be met.
When I was in college, I worked at an orphanage one summer in Matamoros, Mexico. Sixty-something kids all cared for by one couple. They lived in abject poverty. One day, one of the caregivers at the orphanage prayed to God that he would have orange juice for the kids. The next day, a truckload of oranges pulled up from a local produce dealer.
God is big, and good. He cares if orphans have orange juice. He cares for me. I mean, He is the fishes-and-loaves God. He can make my budget work. Heck, He is the bring-folks-back-from-the-dead God. He is the parting-the-sea, calming-the-storms, blind-can-see, lame-can-walk, Saul-became-Paul, save all of mankind God. That is a God you and I can rely on.
Philippians 4:6 (The Message) 6-7
Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life.
Then, that same afternoon, my husband sent me a text with the same scripture. I didn't really pay attention at the time. But this morning, at 4:15 am - when sleep escapes me, I am paying attention.
I'm worried.
I woke up with a start at 2:00am. You know, when you get that terrible feeling, like when your plane is taking off and you can't remember shutting the garage. Or when your phone rings in the middle of the night. Or when you just know you have forgotten something really important. I laid there for a moment, then realized what it was. Matt and I were paying bills the night before and after we were done we were in suprisingly good shape. (By the way, even though I am still receiving a paycheck, we are not touching it so we can get used to living on one income. ) I realized at 2:00 am I had forgotten to write down our mortgage and our monthly giving to the church. I got up and refigured what was left for the month. Let me just say friends - it's bleak. Very bleak.
I'm worried.
I want to take control of the situation. I want to crunch those numbers into submission. I want to go back up to my principal and tell him I have changed my mind and that I don't know what I was thinking. I want to take in more foster kids. I want to ask Matt to take a job that maybe he loves less but makes more. I want to take control. That's what my flesh wants to do.
But then I read:
Philippians 4:6 (The Message) 6-7
"Don't fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God's wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It's wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life. "
and
James 1: (The Message) 5-8
"If you don't know what you're doing, pray to the Father. He loves to help. You'll get his help, and won't be condescended to when you ask for it. Ask boldly, believingly, without a second thought. People who "worry their prayers" are like wind-whipped waves. Don't think you're going to get anything from the Master that way, adrift at sea, keeping all your options open."
And that sounds pretty good. I mean, "People who "worry their prayers" are like wind-whipped waves." Who wants to be that girl? I will be honest folks, I do not trust God to provide but I want to. I have been self-reliant for too long. I think the more we rely on ourselves, the smaller we make Him in our lives. The more capable we think we are, the less capable we think He is.
I want to be smaller, I want Him to be bigger in my life. I want to value what He values. I want Him to determine what my needs are and how they are gonna be met.
When I was in college, I worked at an orphanage one summer in Matamoros, Mexico. Sixty-something kids all cared for by one couple. They lived in abject poverty. One day, one of the caregivers at the orphanage prayed to God that he would have orange juice for the kids. The next day, a truckload of oranges pulled up from a local produce dealer.
God is big, and good. He cares if orphans have orange juice. He cares for me. I mean, He is the fishes-and-loaves God. He can make my budget work. Heck, He is the bring-folks-back-from-the-dead God. He is the parting-the-sea, calming-the-storms, blind-can-see, lame-can-walk, Saul-became-Paul, save all of mankind God. That is a God you and I can rely on.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
What's For Dinner? Wednesday
I am thinking about adding this feature to my blog and I want your opinion. I am kinda a food snob but I am also poor, and most of the time have to feed children. That being said I have a lot of delicous (in my opinion), simple, cost friendly, and most of the time kid friendly recipes. Do you all think I should share them? Leave a comment with your thoughts! Thanks
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Never say never....
I used to have a lot of opinions about what I would never do with my life:
I would never get married…(been married for almost 10 years now).
I would never move back home...(I probably live 7 miles from my parents).
I would never teach in public schools...(guess what I’ve been doing for the last 5 years).
I would never have more than 2 children...(yes, that was me carting the three into the grocery store, and yes - that license on my entryway wall says we have room for four-YIKES!)
I would never drive a minivan...our car is currently on the market and what am I shopping for? :)
Last, but not least, I would NEVER quit my job and stay home to raise my children...well, surprise! I am.
I had always maintained that I would be a working mom. That is what worked for me. I completely respected stay-at-home moms but I could never do that. I liked being busy, I liked being around adults, I liked the money, I liked the sense of accomplishment, I liked going somewhere and doing something that, on most days, I am pretty good at.
Well, this past summer that started to change. We had our second foster placement in a year; off from teaching for the summer, I was working the day camp that I had done for the last three years. It is an awesome job that I love; but this year, with kids at home, it was harder. I was constantly, keenly aware all day that I was losing time with them. In the mean time, we were getting submitted for adoptive and legal-risk placements by the fistfuls. My family was on my mind. One night, when I was feeling overwhelmed and praying about all of this, I felt the Lord clearly say to my spirit: “You have two callings on your life and one is louder right now.” I immediately called my fabulous director (yeah Josh!) and we agreed that I could go part-time for the remainder of the summer and officially resign from my position at the close of the camp. So, I thought: Well, that’s that! But the Lord had more in store as he so often does. This was the beginning of turning my heart. Turning my heart from my story, to His story, to the Big story.
As more time went on, I started the school year, and it quickly became clear to me that I wanted to stay home for many reasons, mainly because I was sick: I was sick of having to choose between my job and my kids, sick of long meetings, sick of my mom having to keep the kids when they were sick in order to save my personal days in case we got an adoptive placement, sick of fighting with doctors to get appointments AFTER work hours, sick of only getting to see my kids for a couple of hours between school and bed, and sick of getting home and being short with my kids because I had used all my energy and patience on someone else’s children. I felt like my students at school suffered and my kids at home suffered. I was a half-assed mom and a half-assed teacher. I told Matt I just wanted to be full-assed at something. We decided that I would finish the year and stay home next year. Once again, I thought: Well, that's that. But again, the Lord had more.
On October 22, we got the call that we had been chosen for a legal-risk placement for a baby boy from Houston. Nine days later, my son, Isaiah, came home. I took two weeks off from work and again, I was keenly aware of the clock ticking down and I hated that feeling. But after those two weeks, I sent him off to daycare and I was sad, but OK. I just had to finish the year. The next few months were not difficult, I was fine. Then the snow and ice came and we had an unplanned six days at home. That last Sunday night, I was devastated at the thought of sending him back to daycare. I think it was harder this time for a lot of reasons. For one, I was more bonded to him and also, I didn't have breaks coming up (Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc). I was sobbing and Matt said: "Well, just quit." (This is one of those moments where Matt offers me an option that he knows isn't really an option). I tell him I can't break contract, I will just have to suffer through, blah, blah, blah - poor me. At school the next day, I have a stroke of genius! I am entitled to 12 weeks under the Family Medical Leave Act and I have only taken two. I called my HR department and they say: yes, I can take the 10 remaining weeks. I looked at a calendar and figured out that if I took it after Spring Break, it pretty much carries me to the end of the year. I tell Matt my "good news".
Fast forward to today, my second day home with Isaiah. When people hear that I have quit my job, most of the reactions are surprised, questioning: "I never thought you would do that!" or "Are you sure you want to do that?" My responses, respectively, are "I know, right?" and "Yes". The long and short of it is that there are a lot of reasons I am where I am.
I believe that we are called to continue foster care. I feel like I can honor that calling better if I do it full time. I feel like the Lord has specifically called me to this season to work on some personal stuff in me. I missed the first four months of Isaiah’s life, I can't get that back, but I do not have to miss any more. I mean, there are more logical and responsible reasons to keep working: we can't afford it, I have a great job that I love with people that I love - which is hard to find, what about retirement? Insurance? The economy? I mean it is truly foolish.
But who can argue with this? This is it folks - you are witnessing the moment my heart was totaled. I mean this guy wrecked me... 
It's funny, after all of these declarations I have gone back on, I try not to make them anymore. I try my darndest not to make plans. When people ask how many kids we are gonna end up with, or if I will ever go back to teaching, I just shrug. This Sunday there was a guest speaker at the church and he talked about taking your story and placing it in God’s story. How easy it is for us to write our own story and tell God to help us make it happen. I want to be in His story - it's always been better than mine anyway.
Now for my disclaimer: this is MY choice, MY calling, and what is right for MY family right now. I truly think that each family has to find what works for them. I am NOT dogging on working moms; after all, I thought I would always be one. Never say never, right?
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Content of Character
In the last two years I have parented two little Hispanic girls, two multi-racial children, and I am now in the process of adopting an African-American baby boy. The racial and ethnic identity of my children isn't super important to me. Most days, I don't think too much about it. I don't say this in a "Oh, I-am-color-blind" manner. I know that my children's skin color is different than mine, and I know that this is and will be one facet of their cultural identity, and I celebrate that.
But when I think about the children I have parented, I think about how I have parented two super-sassy toddler girls - one who was a little mama who loved swaddling baby dolls and folding clothes and another who was a little diva and loved cell phones and make up. I have parented one quirky but BRILLIANT boy whose fine motor skills were exceptional and who could give you the run down of trivia on a multitude of subjects including, but not limited to: pandas, dragons, dinosaurs, sharks, and his family. I have parented a baby girl who loved to be held and snuggled. I am parenting a baby boy who isn't much interested in that, but who loves to wrestle and laugh and jump. I have parented a girl who loves Jesus, who loves "church music" and the Bible. I have parented swimmers and kids that afraid of the water. Kids that love vegetables and kids that eat nothing but noodles and kids that hate noodles. Kids who need pacifiers and kids that are thumb suckers. Kids who are fearless and kids who fear EVERYTHING. Outgoing kids who will talk to and go to anyone, kids that are slow to warm up. This is how I think about my children most of the time.
But the outside world, sometimes even my friends and family see things differently, sometimes see my kids differently. They seem to think the most important part of us is the fact that they are not Caucasian and I am. I can handle the curious questions, I can even laugh them off sometimes. The questions like: "Where did they get their curly hair?" Or "Is his daddy African-American?" or "Is he adopted?" What gets to me are the sneers. The whispering, the pointing, and sometimes laughter. The staring puts me on the defense - I brace for the worst. I cannot go into a store and be invisible anymore. There is no flying under the radar. Everyone I come across has an opinion, a thought about who I am and who my kids are. They stare, they double-take, their eyes narrow. They are missing it. It makes my heart ache and long for a better place.
This year, Martin Luther King day was different for me. More personal. Because my son has come home, and I am so excited, and the color of his skin is different than mine. This year when I was listening to the "I Have a Dream" speech and I heard the line: "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." Something caught in my chest and the tears started because so many people miss it. They miss the whole thing. When people focus on the color of my children's skin they miss other things that make them who they are. They are African American, or Hispanic. But they are also strong, loud, quiet, funny, serious, fearless, timid, compassionate, outspoken, shy, creative, quirky, and so many other things. These things(including their race) make up the whole of who they are.
But when I think about the children I have parented, I think about how I have parented two super-sassy toddler girls - one who was a little mama who loved swaddling baby dolls and folding clothes and another who was a little diva and loved cell phones and make up. I have parented one quirky but BRILLIANT boy whose fine motor skills were exceptional and who could give you the run down of trivia on a multitude of subjects including, but not limited to: pandas, dragons, dinosaurs, sharks, and his family. I have parented a baby girl who loved to be held and snuggled. I am parenting a baby boy who isn't much interested in that, but who loves to wrestle and laugh and jump. I have parented a girl who loves Jesus, who loves "church music" and the Bible. I have parented swimmers and kids that afraid of the water. Kids that love vegetables and kids that eat nothing but noodles and kids that hate noodles. Kids who need pacifiers and kids that are thumb suckers. Kids who are fearless and kids who fear EVERYTHING. Outgoing kids who will talk to and go to anyone, kids that are slow to warm up. This is how I think about my children most of the time.
But the outside world, sometimes even my friends and family see things differently, sometimes see my kids differently. They seem to think the most important part of us is the fact that they are not Caucasian and I am. I can handle the curious questions, I can even laugh them off sometimes. The questions like: "Where did they get their curly hair?" Or "Is his daddy African-American?" or "Is he adopted?" What gets to me are the sneers. The whispering, the pointing, and sometimes laughter. The staring puts me on the defense - I brace for the worst. I cannot go into a store and be invisible anymore. There is no flying under the radar. Everyone I come across has an opinion, a thought about who I am and who my kids are. They stare, they double-take, their eyes narrow. They are missing it. It makes my heart ache and long for a better place.
This year, Martin Luther King day was different for me. More personal. Because my son has come home, and I am so excited, and the color of his skin is different than mine. This year when I was listening to the "I Have a Dream" speech and I heard the line: "I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character." Something caught in my chest and the tears started because so many people miss it. They miss the whole thing. When people focus on the color of my children's skin they miss other things that make them who they are. They are African American, or Hispanic. But they are also strong, loud, quiet, funny, serious, fearless, timid, compassionate, outspoken, shy, creative, quirky, and so many other things. These things(including their race) make up the whole of who they are.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Fraction of a Fraction
Tomorrow, Thomas and Joy are leaving. These are the kids I have fostered for the last 11 1/2 months. Also, today is my last day as a Special Education teacher - a job I have had in one form or another for the last - I dunno - 15 years.
I am feeling a lot of things right now, including, but not limited to: excitement, fear, sadness, regret, and loneliness. For the last month or so leading up to today, I have tried my damndest to hold it together. I have poured food on top these feelings, avoided talking about these things with the people that love me, plastered on a smile, and said things like: "It's what we signed up for" (referring to fostering, and T and J leaving), and "I'm really excited" (referring to leaving my job) and while those things are true, they are a mere fraction of a fraction of the truth.
The truth is: We did sign up for foster care; but we also have fallen madly in love with these kids. They are going back home and that is good, but it isn't entirely stable. I know the Lord has a plan, but it breaks my heart that I won't see them again after tomorrow. I will miss Thomas’ quirks and rigidity, and Joy’s sassiness.
The truth is: you pour blood, sweat, and tears into these kids, you pour love in. You provide stability; you spend yourself trying to undo everything that has been done. Then you send them off, hoping against hope, that it is enough. You pray that they remember love, that you have given enough to last. You dream about seeing them again, but pray they don't have to come back, because that means things never really got better.
The truth is: I am excited about staying at home with Isaiah, but I am also afraid. Afraid of how we are going to be financially. Afraid that I won't be a good stay-at-home mom. I love my job. I am good at my job. My job is safe, I know who I am with my job. Working with individuals with disabilities has defined so much of who I am for so long. I am also sad. I LOVE the people with whom I work. I have been with them every day, every week, for almost three years. I will miss laughing and working with them.
If you know me, you may not know any of this - you may think I am at peace and excited about this new season, this transition, and I am; but that is only a fraction of a fraction of what I am feeling. I am good at stuffing my feelings deep down inside. I avoid situations and people in front of whom I will fall apart. I skipped church on Sunday because I didn't want to be the girl sobbing in the second row. It took me 5 minutes to get out of the car at my LifeGroup (I even told Matt “I don't want to be here”) because I knew I would lose it - (and I did). All of this stuffing, and bearing down so hard, has resulted in a five pound weight gain and full-body hives. And guess what? I'm lonely. I don't want to do it alone, but I don't want to be vulnerable, and I don't want to be perceived as weak. So last night I got in the shower got on my hands and knees and cried body wrenching sobs over the drain. Cause if you try to hold it together it comes out anyways through hives, or snappy short temper or night mares, and if you just let it go and fall apart that's when Glory falls; in the shower covered in hives crying into the drain.
I am feeling a lot of things right now, including, but not limited to: excitement, fear, sadness, regret, and loneliness. For the last month or so leading up to today, I have tried my damndest to hold it together. I have poured food on top these feelings, avoided talking about these things with the people that love me, plastered on a smile, and said things like: "It's what we signed up for" (referring to fostering, and T and J leaving), and "I'm really excited" (referring to leaving my job) and while those things are true, they are a mere fraction of a fraction of the truth.
The truth is: We did sign up for foster care; but we also have fallen madly in love with these kids. They are going back home and that is good, but it isn't entirely stable. I know the Lord has a plan, but it breaks my heart that I won't see them again after tomorrow. I will miss Thomas’ quirks and rigidity, and Joy’s sassiness.
The truth is: you pour blood, sweat, and tears into these kids, you pour love in. You provide stability; you spend yourself trying to undo everything that has been done. Then you send them off, hoping against hope, that it is enough. You pray that they remember love, that you have given enough to last. You dream about seeing them again, but pray they don't have to come back, because that means things never really got better.
The truth is: I am excited about staying at home with Isaiah, but I am also afraid. Afraid of how we are going to be financially. Afraid that I won't be a good stay-at-home mom. I love my job. I am good at my job. My job is safe, I know who I am with my job. Working with individuals with disabilities has defined so much of who I am for so long. I am also sad. I LOVE the people with whom I work. I have been with them every day, every week, for almost three years. I will miss laughing and working with them.
If you know me, you may not know any of this - you may think I am at peace and excited about this new season, this transition, and I am; but that is only a fraction of a fraction of what I am feeling. I am good at stuffing my feelings deep down inside. I avoid situations and people in front of whom I will fall apart. I skipped church on Sunday because I didn't want to be the girl sobbing in the second row. It took me 5 minutes to get out of the car at my LifeGroup (I even told Matt “I don't want to be here”) because I knew I would lose it - (and I did). All of this stuffing, and bearing down so hard, has resulted in a five pound weight gain and full-body hives. And guess what? I'm lonely. I don't want to do it alone, but I don't want to be vulnerable, and I don't want to be perceived as weak. So last night I got in the shower got on my hands and knees and cried body wrenching sobs over the drain. Cause if you try to hold it together it comes out anyways through hives, or snappy short temper or night mares, and if you just let it go and fall apart that's when Glory falls; in the shower covered in hives crying into the drain.
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