Where Have All the Children Gone?

Lately I’ve encountered a number of kindred spirits on Adoptionblogs.com. Some of them have been kind enough to respond to posts on my personal blogs, and have even helped me to promote my sites by linking them to their own.

One of these special moms, Diane, wrote me today to alert me to a three-part series on the fate of children who “age out” of the foster system. (To read the whole thing, go to www.prayingforaprodigal.blogspot.com.) It reads in part:

National studies (Child Trends 1999) have shown that within 12-18 months of leaving foster care:

• 40% will not have completed high school;
• 50% will be unemployed;
• 33% will be on public assistance;
• 38% are emotionally disturbed;
• 50% had used illegal drugs;
• 25% had been “involved with the legal system” (e.g. with criminal records).

Furthermore, 40% of the nation’s homeless were in foster care as children (Life Coach Homes, 1999). Diane observes that “foster children who age out of the system bring with them ‘an accumulated set of problems that make a successful transition to adulthood difficult.’”
Knowing the statistics, Diane writes, “how can any of us sit back, expect the government to solve these issues, and feel we are supporting our youth in trouble?”

In Michigan last year, 500 children “aged out” of the foster system at age 18. Given their prospects, it is gratifying to know that Jennifer Granholm has signed us up to participate in a six-state task force to study the problem, and learn what other states are doing to assist these teenagers as they transition into adult life and to “listen to the concerns” of the affected youth. (For more info, go to http://www.michigan.gov/dhs/0,1607,7-124--135046--,00.html)

Still, I wonder: Given the cash-poor, job-poor economy in which we find ourselves, is a task force really going to make a difference? Wouldn’t the money be better spent, say, funding a kind of “transition village” that would provide vocational training and life skills – budgeting, problem-solving, and other necessary skills through a kind of privatized mentor program?

When I lived in California, the state matched up schools with local businesses who supplemented the existing budget with school supplies, lunch-hour tutoring volunteers, and other practical assistance. Wouldn’t it be cool if each of the 500 kids “aging out” could be partnered with an organization that would not only offer them on-the-job training, but practical assistance as well, to get them started?

And wouldn’t it be cool if the first “batch” of recruits came from members of faith-based communities, who believe in the power of the human person to change for the better?

Hey, I have a dream… Anyone want to dream with me?

Light for Dark Thoughts

Each year around this time I sit down and write a letter to the children's birth parents, recounting highlights of the preceding year to go with the updated photographs. Some have suggested to me that this might come back to haunt me, should the birth parents decide to try something stupid (like kidnap the children). I don't see it that way -- I see it as the decent thing to do for two people who, though they were incapable of caring for the children themselves, did in fact give them life. Which is more than many people would have done.

I'll never forget the time I was sitting at the agency, playing with the baby while the older children had their family visit. A worker came down and, looking at the baby in my lap, said: "I'll never understand why she decided to have that fourth one. She might not be in this mess if she had just gotten rid of it."

I was shocked and appaulled (still am... too much to spell correctly, it seems), but after a moment I found my tongue. "I will always be grateful that Sarah's mother chose life for her. If she hadn't, it is very likely that the other children would not have a home today." The truth was, there were days when the only thing that got me through the chaos was the thought that I could not bear to give back this little bundle of joy. Which is a terrible thing, I know -- the older two deserved to be loved and nurtured as their younger sister, and I have since resolved my feelings on the matter. At the time, I was just coping the best I could . . . which meant looking for the bright patch in the middle of some VERY dark days.

There will be times, dear friend, if you are a foster or adoptive parent (or even a biological one, I'm told) that being high-minded and infinitely benevolent just isn't humanly possible. There will be times when you have some not-very-flattering feelings about the little rugrats who have come to claim every last drop of your rapidly depleting patience and energy. Your Mommy Monsters will come out in full force, particularly after you've been subsisting on Gold Fish and two hours of sleep a night for three days in a row.

Be kind to yourself, and send up a prayerful S.O.S. Stick the kids in front of a video, then lock yourself in the bathroom, turn on the water, and let yourself rant for five minutes. Hit or hug a pillow. Hard. Then take a deep breath, whisper a little prayer (perhaps in care of St. Thomas More, the patron of foster and adoptive children and their parents), and make yourself a cup of tea. Then find your favorite children's book, settle on the floor with your brood, and give yourselves some quality time. The dirty dishes and mismatched socks will be there when you're done. Another half-hour of television will just leave you feeling mentally flabby. (If it's not mental flab you're fighting, get out the stroller and walk the kids around the block.)

And remember, in your darkest moments, that you have just had a glimpse of what those birth parents must have been experiencing -- with far fewer resources to help them, most likely. If that doesn't give you empathy, to allow you to talk with your children about them in neutral if not cordial tones, nothing ever will.

Careful What You Say?

When I was a kid, we learned dozens of little Sunday school ditties that ran through our heads wherever we went, keeping us on the proverbial straight-and-narrow. One of the most popular went like this:

Oh, be careful little mouth what you say (repeat)
For the Father up above
Is looking down in love.
So, be careful little mouth what you say!

The song popped into my head again yesterday at the park, when the kids and I took their “Grammy” for a walk around the park while Dad and “Poppi” were gamely battling the wind and drizzle in an attempt to light the grill under the picnic pavilion.

In between nature discoveries (slow-moving bugs and fast-swimming mallards) we made up silly little songs – “Songs to Skip By,” if you will. To the tune of “Camptown Races,” Mammy sang, “Little Sarah, she’s so sweet, doo dah, doo dah…”

Before I could engage my brain, I offered up the next line. “Though she’s got such stinky feet, O doo dah day!” I looked back, expecting the entire group to chuckle (including Sarah, who just the night before stuck her toes in my face for a tickle, and hooted as she always did when I grimaced at her supposedly smelly soles).

Today, however, it was no laughing matter. The effect was immediate: My four-year-old daughter stopped skipping and ducked her head, her little shoulders hunched. I had embarrassed her – in front of Grammy, no less. “I do NOT have stinky feet!” she protested under her breath. All eyes flew to my face.

Wishing to “Rewind”

There are times in every parent’s life when we wish for nothing so much as a rewind button on our lips. Quickly I knelt in front of Sarah and wrapped my arms around her wooden frame. “Of course you don’t, Sweetheart. I’m so sorry I hurt your feelings. Mommy shouldn’t have said that – and I won’t say it ever again. Will you forgive me?” After a moment she nodded, but she was quiet the rest of the walk, except to remind her grandmother, “Mommy said I have stinky feet, but I don’t really.”

That night I tossed and turned in bed, realizing with anguish that I had broken a mother’s promise. As a child I had frequently been on the receiving end of thoughtless and hurtful remarks that had cut to the core. Over the years my emotional armor became a permanent fixture, protecting me even from those who loved me. Thank God for Craig, whose gentle demeanor made me feel safe enough to let down my guard. (To this day we have the shortest fights on record: On those rare occasions a harsh or impatient word escapes him, my eyes tear up and he moves heaven and earth to make it stop!)

I promised myself that if I did nothing else for my children, I would teach them that their feelings were safe with me. I understood how much words could hurt, and they had already been subjected to horrific abuse and neglect in their early years. I was determined that they would never have reason to question whether they were loved and appreciated. They could be able to trust their mother not to expose them publicly for private shortcomings. “Praise in public, correct in private” was my motto. The incident at the park reminded me just how careful I needed to be if I were going to keep that promise.

Extended Protection Warranted

For many foster families, there are other important reasons to protect our children from the idle curiosity of others – even other family members. Extended family may object to the prospect having to include in the family circle a messy, noisy, energy-draining urchin or two with whom they share no biological connection. Furthermore, the behavior one can expect from traumatized children – verbal or physical outbursts, “prickly” responses to gestures of kindness and affection, bad manners and hyperactive tendencies – can be off-putting for those unaccustomed to dealing with such children.

One family I know saw their in-laws just twice the first year after their foster children arrived, even though the grandparents lived barely thirty minutes away. “We’re not used to having little children around,” they would excuse themselves. “We’re too old to keep up with them.” And yet, these were the same people who begged their daughter-in-law to keep their son’s teddy bear on their bed because they had read an article that it could increase the chances of conceiving a child.

My friend recognized the emotional impasse that was at stake here, and began “chatting up” her mother-in-law with the children’s progress, even dropping by unexpectedly and placing the youngest child, who was then less than a year old, in her grandmother’s arms. Gradually the ice began to thaw.

A year later, when the adoption went through, the grandparents began taking more interest in their new grandchildren. They had lost out on nearly two years of their adopted grandkid’s young lives. And the adoptive parents, who had struggled through that first year of foster care, had missed the benefit of having family nearby. And yet, there was nothing to be gained by mourning or harboring resentments about the past – and much to be gained by focusing on the present.

In this case, a little emotional armor – which enabled the adoptive mother to persevere in cultivating a relationship between her children and her standoffish mother-in-law – was a good thing, in the best interest of the family. In the words of the Apostle Paul, “Love is patient and kind… Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Cor 13:7). These words, pronounced frequently at weddings, are not just for newlyweds; it is the “Golden Rule” of all family life.

St. Antony of Padua, patron of humility, pray for me that I might safeguard my words, that I might never injure those entrusted into my care. In the name of Jesus, the Word of God made flesh, protect my children from losing their innocence and joy from the carelessness thoughts of their mother. Pray for me, and for mothers everywhere, that we may be ever mindful of the “Father up above, looking down with love,” and to show our children by example how to “be careful, little mouths, what you say.” Amen.

Does God Have a Family for Every Child?

Today my friend “Sue,” also an adoptive foster parent, told me of a harrowing tale involving her children’s older brother. Considering all he’s been through, “Kevin” is not a bad kid. Certainly he doesn’t deserve what life has dished out to him – losing not only his birth parents but also his four siblings, who have been adopted by two families. For their safety, Kevin cannot be placed with his brothers and sisters, so at the tender age of ten he is living in a group home with children considerably older than himself.

Each time Sue sees him, she says, Kevin is a little more resigned to his fate.

Well, “resigned” is not the right word. He cries. He rages. He asserts – quite vehemently – that Sue had no right to give his brother and sister a new name. They belong to him. His feelings are understandable; while his siblings have a bright future ahead of them, Kevin’s dreams are squarely in the past.

Sue told me that as she returned Kevin to the group home, he sobbed as she led him to the front door. “What could I say? I just hugged him. I’ve been praying for a family for Kevin from the beginning, but it is becoming harder and harder to sound convincing or encouraging. Is it loving to hold out hope where very little exists?”

In her more emotional moments, Sue toys with the idea of finding a way to take Kevin, too – but he has amply demonstrated that he preys on younger children. And Sue recognizes that her first responsibility must be to the two she already has.

And so, she hugged him tight and left, fuming under her breath: Where are You in this, God?

I know exactly how she feels. All my life I’ve operated under the assumption that God has a plan for all His children; I’ve seen God’s Providence come through in very trying situations. So why is He distressingly silent in this situation? Is it possible that, in Kevin’s case, God’s plan does not include a family?

Or maybe it did, and that family decided they wanted a different plan.

I once heard Mary Beth Bonacci observe, “God calls all of us to give ourselves in love, either to marriage or consecrated religious life. Fortunately, He is very generous with His ‘Plan B.’”
So in this case, maybe God’s ‘Plan B’ is for each of us to do what we can, and trust that it will be enough from keeping kids like Kevin from going off the path altogether. He wants us to cry and pray and struggle alongside them, always keeping our eyes on the primary task at hand: To keep our own children safe.

It’s not the ideal situation. Frankly, it stinks.

It also reminds me of something that for years puzzled me. When Christ was on earth, He is never recorded as having healed whole crowds of people with a single word, though doubtless He had the power to do so. He almost always did it one at a time, usually with some kind of personal contact. Have you ever noticed this? Wouldn’t it have been a far more convincing proof of the power of the gospel to heal them en masse, no muss or fuss? He could have set up a cushy private practice somewhere . . . He could have wiped out world hunger by opening soup kitchens with all that multiplied fish and bread.

And yet, these were not tasks entrusted to Him by the Father. The Lord came, first and foremost, to give His life in order to restore the human race to spiritual wholeness, and to plant the seedling Church that would tend His fields and flocks in His absence. And He came to give us a living example of what it means to carry those burdens – and only those burdens – God calls us to bear.

“The poor you shall always have with you…” Christ observed to the disciple who criticized the perceived extravagance of the woman who anointed the Lord with costly ointment and wiped His feet with her hair. For foster and adoptive parents, there is a lesson for us here: We cannot allow ourselves to become overwhelmed, or distracted by burdens God has not entrusted to us.

We cannot get too far ahead, worrying about next year or even next week. Each day God gives us a little more light, just enough to take the next step along the path He has called us to follow. One day at a time, one child at a time: We will have strength enough to follow Him only if we trust Him to carry the rest.

Don Bosco, while you were on earth you were father to hundreds of fatherless children. We pray for Kevin, and children like him, that their hearts will not grow hard before they have the chance to feel the full force of the love of God’s Sacred Heart.

And, dear Heavenly Father, if it’s not too much to ask, please provide a family for Kevin. In the Holy Name of the Most Blessed Trinity, Amen.

The Monster Returns

"Nanny 911" is appointment television for me. More often than not, the families (whom you have to admire for being willing to subject themselves to public embarrassment) bear a strong resemblance to the one who lives under our roof. At least sometimes.

So when the family in the hot-seat had a four-year-old whose normal tone of voice was a cross between a fire siren and a fog horn, I sat up and took note.

Imagine my shock when Nanny Stella gave Mom what-for (Craig and I thought the dad was going to get it, but she surprised us). "The child wouldn't yell so much," Nanny lectured, "if she felt someone was listening to her.

Ouch.

So I dutifully printed up our "house rules," as Nanny suggested, and let the kids decorate the posters with glitter pens. So far, so good. The rules read, in part:

1. Show respect. Hitting and name-calling are not respectful.
2. Speak, don't shriek.
3. Don't whine, or Mom can't hear you.
4. No TV until all homework is done and your rooms are clean.
5. Clean up after yourself. Yes, that means you.
6. Infractions will result in time-out on the stairs.

It was the last rule, though, that Nanny promised we would appreciate the most:

7. Thirty minutes of family time every single day. Since Dad frequently does not come home for dinner, this means we've been making breakfast our "together time" And to my great surprise (I am not and have never been a morning person), it really does help the day get off to a good start. No more whining. No more screaming. Just sweet and heavenly peace.

Now, we've only been at this about a week. We may just ber in a "honeymood" phase. But if it keeps the monsters at bay, why not?

We won the lottery!

The academic lottery, that is... My son won the last available slot in the kindergarten class of the local charter school, ensuring both him and his little sister an opportunity to learn in an environment that affirms and promotes moral values common to all faith traditions: integrity, perseverence, courage, wisdom, prudence, and justice.

Personally, I am also a little relieved that he won't be riding the school bus. On the two mornings he went to public school, he returned to inform me that two little girls had kissed him. On the bus. (Older women, no doubt -- second grade or so.) I'm not sure I'm ready for that yet -- and take comfort that this kind of thing won't be encouraged at his new school.

He wasn't thrilled at the prospect of having to start a new school twice in the same week, but all apprehension vanished as soon as he saw his teacher: tall, blonde, pretty, and gentle. He forgot to be mad that he wasn't in the class with the dinosaurs (the other K class makes a papier mache replica at the end of each year), and threw his arms around his new teacher's teeny-tiny little waist. "I like you!" he declared.

She giggled, delighted. "I like you, too!" she replied. And in that moment, I liked her as well.

So I'll have to drive carpool for the next eight years. It's worth a little peace of mind.

Tea with the Girls: Advent of Spiritual Friendship

On the second Saturday before Christmas, the preparations begin. My “Old Country Roses” china tea service comes down to be gently washed and dried; the linen tablecloth I inherited from my grandmother is shaken out and pressed. Ingredients for the special Advent cake are assembled into pure chocolate decadence. My children watch with eagerness, for they know what is coming: Tomorrow is “Funday with Dad!”

The next day, my family makes themselves scarce as I set the table and, at the strike of two, light the Advent wreath. The doorbell rings, and my heart skips a beat: decade-old friendships are about to renew themselves. The five of us seldom gather more than twice a year (we celebrate birthdays together each summer over Tex-Mex); however, these gatherings are a priority. Praying, talking, eating, laughing… as the chapters of our lives turn from one page to the next, we have supported one another in good times and bad, and especially in times of waiting.

Katy is first; this year she brings fruit salad. The tenth of thirteen siblings, she is the anchor of our group, the one who always shows up for any crisis to tend to practical needs – painting a nursery, tending a sick person, and remembering an anniversary. This year she and her husband have another exchange student, a boy from Germany.

Denise is next, bearing her signature baklava. Many single women would hesitate to take on her financial and emotional commitments: She has adopted a girl from Ukraine and a boy from Kazakhstan. Though she has never been pregnant, she knows the joyful, anxious waiting that accompanies a familial addition. I admire her courage, and her determination not to put her life on hold until she finds a spouse.

Lilian, a nutritionist, arrives with a savory salsa dip and pictures of the son she and her husband adopted from Guatemala. This year there are also photos the girl they will soon retrieve from another Guatemalan foster home.

Patty’s specialty is muffins. “How can I pray for you guys?” she wants to know. A veteran
auntie and accomplished flautist, Patty recently moved into a new home with her little dog, Buddy. Her solitude is a mixed blessing; the burdens she carries are real, but so is her faith. Hers is a life invested in other people.

This year we celebrate because my waiting is over. After three long years, the adoption for our foster children has been finalized, and we have the piece of paper that affirms what we have always known: We are truly a family. I pass around pictures from the baptism and talk about my studies at the seminary, which have slowed considerably since the children arrived. But that’s OK, too… as someone once told me, “Anticipation is often the greater part of pleasure.”

The Gift of Waiting

The last crumb disappears, the last drop empties from the teapot, and my friends depart for another year. Favorite teacup in hand, I settle myself to await my family’s return and think about what a blessing I have in the friendships of these four women.

In a sense, a woman’s life is about waiting: In childhood, we wait impatiently to be “all grown up,” to have a measure of freedom from parental constraints. In young adulthood, we wait for the phone to ring… for exam results… for the time we will be truly on our own. Later, we wait for first love, first homes, first children… it never ends. In the name of “liberation” we may strike out on our own and grab what we want by any means necessary. However, the results seldom satisfy, any more than a Christmas gift inspected on the sly increases our enjoyment of it when at last it is opened: The waiting is part of the gift.


When the Waiting Hurts

At times the waiting is anxious, even painful. About a year ago we hit a snag in our adoption process: Relatives of the birth parents expressed interest in adopting our children, who had been with us two years, since the baby was six months old. Outwardly I tried to remain calm; inside I was in turmoil. We were at the mercy of the state, without recourse if they decided to take these precious children from us.

The wait became even more intolerable when my sister-in-law – the only member of my husband’s family who was consistently kind and supportive of our decision to be foster parents – announced her decision to move to Arizona. The closest members of my own family live hundreds of miles away; I had never felt more alone.

Barbara’s impending departure caused something to snap inside me. For about a week my husband watched helplessly as I paced the floor day and night, bursting into tears for no apparent reason. Finally, I sat down at my computer and typed a note to “the Girls,” confessing that while I did not feel up to seeing them, I wanted them to know what I was going through.

Less than a day passed before each of them found a way to remind me of their love and prayers. One of them bravely ignored my “no visitors” directive, and came – not to rescue me, but to wait with me. Later, my sister called and convinced me to go and see my doctor: She recognized the depression symptoms, and knew what it would take to get back on track. Within a few weeks, my mood lifted.

Later, I worked up nerve to ask my mother if she had ever felt as overwhelmed with life as I was feeling just then. “Oh, when I get down I just sing hymns until I feel better,” she shrugged. Having lived with her for the first eighteen years of my life, this facile response was dissatisfying. Although maintaining our spiritual connection with God is important, I had learned that stubborn isolation and manufactured cheer does more harm than good. Like Peter sinking in the water, each of us needs a hand up at times.

In times of adversity, women are in some ways stronger than men. God gives us inner strength to wait not with passive resignation but with confidence in his goodness. He gives us intuition that helps us to nurture those who need our care, body and soul. God enables us to sense him at work even in the darkness, and gives us the ability to persevere and to intercede even when a task is thankless or an intention seems hopeless.

However, my encounter with depression taught me that there are times when these hidden, womanly spiritual gifts are meant to operate not in solitude, but within the context of community. “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ,” St. Paul tells us (Galatians 6:2).


When Waiting Heals

My little circle of friends supports one another in our struggles: the oppression of abortion or devastation of miscarriage, the shame of childhood abuse, the dissolution of a relationship, the death of a family member, the struggles of married life. When a need surfaces, we instinctively draw a circle of love around it, tending not just to the symptoms but to the whole person.

• First we tend to bodily needs: the jar of soup at the door, a painted nursery, an hour of babysitting so Mom can nap, or sheer presence when it is needed most – be it a wedding or a wake.
• Next we support her soul – intellect and will, memories and emotions: a helpful book, a listening ear, a practical suggestion for an unresolved dilemma, conversation that moves from the trivial to the issues closest to the heart.
• Finally, we care for her spirit: a commitment to pray for specific intentions, and to ask the hard questions when her life veers off-course. As single women, we would find each other at Mass, increasing our sense of solidarity as together we drew close to the heart of God through the sacraments. Another time, a friend’s courageous question drove me to a confessional prior as I prepared to marry. Because of her, I received the best wedding gift of all: healing from the past, and a clear slate for the future.
  

A Gift of Spiritual Friendship

“O Come, O Come Emmanuel…” In a few weeks we will celebrate this most precious of all gifts: God as one of us. Through Mary’s faith-filled assent, the eternal Word of God fulfilled centuries of promise, coming to reconcile all of humankind with our Creator. This Advent season of joyful expectation, do you find yourself waiting physically or emotionally alone? Are you struggling to find peace, or healing from an old wound? Are you getting so caught up in the needs and wants of others that you neglect your own? Remember the Blessed Virgin who, upon hearing of the task entrusted to her, did the most natural thing in the world… She set off to share her news with a kindred spirit who would listen with faith and understanding. In good news and bad, we all need this kind of spiritual friendship. What can you do this Advent season to renew – or even initiate – one of your own?

Dear Birth Parents...

Last weekend we celebrated the children's baptisms. The best present of all came from the social worker, who said FIA had finally gotten their collective acts together and processed the paperwork we needed for our court date. We should have it in about four weeks.

We have deliberately kept the children uninformed about the delays and aggravation that we have experienced in this process, not wanting them to worry or feel insecure in their relationship with us. Instead we made the date of their baptisms the day that we celebrated the adoption. They seem to understand on some basic level that things have been settled.

No sooner had Father Dave finished pouring water on Christopher's head, he threw his head back (sprinkling everyone behind him in the process) and crowed, "I'm BAPTISED now!" His face positively lit up... and a few days later I heard him tell a classmate, "I got baptized, and now I don't get bad dreams anymore -- they all got washed away!"

I held Sarah in my arms when it was her turn for the water. I had practiced sprinking her for several weeks, so she got used to it. I could hear some family members (who shall remain nameless) laying odds as to whether she was going to burst into tears. Indeed, the storm clouds seem to gether in a little knot on her forehead when the first drops hit. But I held her closer and looked into her chocolate-brown eyes and whispered, "Sarah, today is your baptism day, your birthday in God's family, and in ours!" The clouds dissipated immediately, and her face broke into a cherubic smile.

I wish I could say their behavior changed drastically after the rite was completed, that somehow the moodiness and streaking stopped on the spot. But I still have to chase Sarah around the house to get her reclothed several times a day, and Christopher still has unexpected bouts of anger and sadness that not even a long cuddle session with Mom and a popsicle will fix instantly. But they are growing up quickly, and I've decided to entrust the process to God, and do what I can to help them make good choices every day, until they become habit.

Dear birth parents, this weekend you were often on my mind. I remember (painfully) the day one of the social workers came out of the family visiting area to find twelve-month-old Sarah playing on my lap. "I can't believe that woman had that fourth baby after all she had to deal with with the first three."

Instinctively I pulled Sarah a little closer and covered her head with her lovey, trying to keep the harsh message out. "If not for this fourth baby," I retorted, "her older siblings might not have a home today." It was true... when the antics and misbehaviors of her two older siblings got to me, it was only the prospect of losing Sarah that helped me gut it out. And so I am grateful to you, birth parents, for having the courage to give our children the best gift of all: life.

Letter to my adopted children: Forever Family

"Mommy Monster" is on vacation... "Mellow Mom" is filling in. This went on our adoptive children's welcome party invitations.... Enjoy.

When God makes parents
He places a special hole in their hearts.
One place for each child He wants to send.

Sometimes that child grows out of love,
safe and warm under his mother’s heart
until he is ready to meet the world.

But sometimes God sees two people
With holey hearts and empty arms,
And says, “Hey! Let’s make a family!”

So the angels spread out, searching high and low,
and east and west, for just the right children.
Then tenderly, carefully they guide them home.

These children have two real mothers:
One carried them in her body, one carries them in her heart.
They have two real fathers, too: one gave them life,
And one teaches them how to live.

Christopher and Sarah,
Since the day your angels led you to us,
We have waited and waited to call you our own.
Now our hearts are full, and our arms are, too.

Thank you, God, for our “forever family.”

Coming Home

This weekend I was in Chicago for a work conference, and left my loving hubby home with the rugrats. When I got home, the laundry was up to the ceiling. (Dear hubby has the hang of stuffing the washer and dryer, but has yet to figure out that there is no Clean Laundry Fairy to fold, sort, and put away the dried clothes.) Dirty dishes on every gritty countertop. Dog dishes were empty.

But then, poor dear had had a busy weekend. Both kids had cherubic (albeit schmutzy) smiles, and he looked as though he had not slept in the last 48 hours. So I just smiled and gave him a hug.

It's a good thing I don't go away more often.

H.

Living Easter

Not bad... Only took me into the second week of Easter before my blog caught up!

This Easter is especially poignant with the passing of our dear Holy Father. I've already spilled enough virtual ink on that subject, so I'll spare you a recap here. (If you haven't read the reflection, and would like to, go to my saintscholasticasociety blog.)

No, today is about the little monsters. We took them to Walt Disney World this year, for what I had hoped would be our first "real" family vacation after the adoption was finalized. Unfortunately, the state did not cooperate... They are still dragging their feet on the paperwork. We took the vacation anyway, and tried to ignore the fact that it rained buckets two out of the three days we visited the Mouse.

Of course, rain isn't a bad thing, not at WDW. If you go prepared, it means shorter lines and less waiting. Just bring your poncho, grab a cup of hot chocolate or a pretzel, and do a little people watching -- or keep going (lots of the rides have covered waiting queues). Oh, and be sure to have a complete change of clothes waiting for you in your backpack, locker, or car. Have fun!

In life (as at WDW), much of your experience is about attitude. It's choosing to find joy, instead of dwelling on the rainy bits. It's like the old hymn says...

Because He lives, I can face tomorrow

Because He lives, all fear is gone

Because I know He holds the future

And life is worth the living, just because He lives.

For us Mommy Monsters, there is a second verse.

Because He lives, I can bear the whining

Because He lives, I'll ignore the mess

Because I know, yes I know, life passes quickly

The kids will soon be gone, so I can get some rest.

Lenten Lullabye

Hello, friends!

Traditionally, Lent is the forty days before Easter when we contemplate God's goodness, and His unfathomable sacrifice: Not only did he come to earth and walk among us; he died in the most gruesome and painful way possible, in full payment for our sins, and for the sins of the whole world.

Explaining this to a three-year-old, however, can be a bit tricky. As we were on our way out of church the other day, Sarah pointed to the life-size crucifix that adorns the "cry room"/day chapel wall. "Jesus died on the cross?" she said to me, her brown eyes wide and concerned. "Did Jesus cry?"

Now, I'm still a novice parent, but even I knew this was not the time to delve into the gory details of a crucifixion. "Jesus cries when we do bad things. That's because when we sin we get dirty inside, and God can't be with us the way he wants to. God can't live in a dirty house."

"Jesus died?"

"Yes, Jesus died. First he came to earth to show us how to get close to God again. Then he died for our sins, so one day we can live forever with God."

Miraculously, this seemed to satisfy Sarah.

Today, five-year-old Christopher wanted to know why we had to go to church in the middle of the week. "Today is the first day of Lent," I explained. "We do things during Lent that we don't do at other times of the year. For example, we might give up something we really like, to thank Jesus for giving up his life for us. We might do something for someone else, to share God's love with him or her. Tonight we will go to the church, and the priest will put a dot of ashes on our foreheads."

"What's ashes?"

"Ashes are like a bit of dirt, and they remind us of how sin makes us dirty -- but we are made clean because of Jesus' sacrifice, through the sacraments."

What I did not tell Christopher was that Lent is also a time for a self-check, to see how far we've progressed on the road to holiness. To be honest, I still have more than a few significant "speed bumps."


So this Lent, I resolve...

To turn off the television, especially during the day when I like to have it on for "noise." Instead, I will practice the art of silence.

To simplify my world, a la "Fly Lady," by sorting through my house until everything we use has a place, and everything else is sold, given, tossed, or stored away.

To walk a little, every day.

To whisper every time I am tempted to yell. (Christopher's counsellor assures me that it will be easier to communicate with my kids when I am the calmest and slowest-speaking person in the room.)

To pray each night with my family.

A tall order, I know. Talk about a "virtual makeover"! I'll keep you posted.

Suffer the Little Children

Like most people without children, I assumed that training a toddler to sit through Mass would be a snap. In reality, the idea is more like fool’s gold: glittering with promise, but without any real grounding in reality. If our children are our visas to heaven, that particular stamp in the passport must be worth more than a few weeks of humiliation. That thought got me through a few rough weeks, until another epiphany hit: I am more like my children than I care to admit.

Christopher and his sister Sarah had been living with us about a week when we took them to church for the first time. Six-month-old Sarah spent most of the time dozing on Craig’s shoulder. Two-year-old Christopher, however, was clearly out of his element; he clutched my thigh and howled each time I tried to take my place behind the piano. Earlier that week he had lost one foster mother; he was not about to lose another one without a fight. Somehow we got through that Mass, but it was obvious that, at least for a time, the ensemble would have to make a joyful noise without me.
We had heard good things about another parish, one closer our new house, and decided to check it out the following week. Christopher still refused to come within arm’s reach of my husband, the gentle giant. So I suppose it should not have surprised us when we went forward to receive the Eucharist, and Father Will reached out his hand in blessing, that Christopher responded with an emphatic “NO!” and a surprisingly accurate left hook.
“Brat,” I heard someone behind us mutter as we beat a hasty retreat to our pew.
Later, we introduced ourselves to the priest, and explained that our foster son did not yet understand that a man could reach out to him in kindness, rather than anger. Fortunately Father Will has a good sense of humor … which he got to exercise again the following week when Christopher bid the priest good-bye by grabbing his vestments six inches south of the equator, the highest place his two-year-old hands could reach.
Becoming parents – even by proxy – gave us a new perspective on parish life. Gradually we encountered a range of philosophies about “good” Catholic children and their parents, including a plethora of unspoken rules and expectations guaranteed to keep someone scowling at all times. Here are just a few of our favorites.

The “Saintlies.” The Saintlies seem to have extended family (usually very large extended families) in almost every parish in the U.S. During Mass, even the baby sits like a bit of statuary, while the older children have thigh and pectoral muscles like steel bands (from the daily genuflecting and clasping of hands). The youngest knows the Rosary in eight languages; the older ones amuse themselves by diagramming Father’s three-point homilies. Mother is perfectly coiffed and serene, Father golfs with the bishop. The Saintlies are exceedingly nice, and visitors can always find a seat immediately behind or in front of them: “Regulars” tend to avoid the Saintlies, whose perfect deportment make “regular” kids look doubly grubby.

Flighty Gidget and the Messy Marvin Brigade. At the other end of the ecclesial acceptability scale is a family that sits… well, let’s just say very close to our pew. Their three-year-old, the escape artist, once belly-crawled over ten rows of kneelers for a better look at a visiting priest. Big brother Marvin holds the record for Cheerio stacking on the pew in front of him… a record Marvin tries to break each week, with predictable results. (He gives himself extra points when cereal falls inside the collar of whoever occupies that seat.) Mom now puts a Dust Buster and tranquilizer gun in the diaper bag with the sippy cups.

Cry Room Commandos. You would think that the thick layer of glass would pretty well contain the cacophony. And it does – until one of them discovers that beating his plastic Rescue Hero against the glass during prayer time makes grownups turn and look at him with a decidedly un-prayerful expression. Ah, feel the power!

Chattering Charlie. Two-year-old Charlie is at that awkward stage: Old enough to understand the power of the spoken word, but not old enough to get the concept of whispering. Last week Charlie’s mother, who spends more time shushing and distracting her son than praying, told Charlie that his noise would scare all the angels away. He responded by gazing at the ceiling and giving a full-throated dinosaur roar. Charlie shares his mother’s musical ability, as evidenced by the chorus of “Amazing Grapes” he belted out in the middle of Father’s homily a new moments later.

Busy Bees Brigade. It’s understandable that a family of eight might on occasion have difficulty getting out of their coats and into the pew before the first notes of the opening hymn. However, this particular family has not heard the responsorial psalm since the first Bush administration, and subscribes to the theory that children should sit in the very front, where they can see – and be seen. See Mikey hit his brother. See Margie ask to be taken to the bathroom. For the third time. See little Patty, displaced from Mama’s lap by the latest stork-drop, pull her dress over her head and cast herself in the aisle.

Except for a handful of Saintlie clones out there, these true-to-life cherubs make us smile because most of us have been there at one time or another. We have weathered the Cheerios and coloring book phase of parenting, and (with a lot of prayer and just a pinch of luck) are headed for a different set of challenges, as our children embark on that perilous journey of spiritual adolescence, trying to figure out what they really believe, and why.

“Unless you become like a little child…”

My earliest memories involve the inside of a church. In the first thirty years of my life, I belonged to a variety of Protestant denominations (usually as the organist/piano player/choir director), graduated from Bible school, and went on a few short-term missions trips abroad.
The thing is, while my faith “broadened” as I stretched myself to handle each of these challenges, that faith did not grow much deeper. I had given in to a subtle yet all-too-common form of spiritual pride: I thought God wanted me to be more concerned about the souls of those around me than my own spiritual growth.
By the time I realized the true state of things, my spiritual batteries had nearly drained themselves dry. I floundered, a bit shell-shocked, without moorings or compass until, by the mercy of God, I found the peace I craved in the very the last place I ever thought to look: the Catholic Church.
And all I had to do was become a child again.
Take the music, for example. As a Protestant I had been involved in some form of music ministry since age twelve; “Great Hymns of the Faith” was second only to the Bible as my favorite book. So imagine my chagrin when I stepped through the doorway of the Catholic Church, and I didn’t know even one of the hymns they were singing. (And don’t get me started on liturgy settings.)
As a Protestant, I was “fluent” in Scripture. Thanks to the thorough formation I received at home and in church, I knew most Bible stories by heart (complete with songs and hand motions). As a Catholic, I was devastated to find that many Catholic theologians – including most priests I know – believe that the first twelve books of Genesis are better classified as “sacred myth” than “history.” Nothing in four years of Bible school had prepared me for that epiphany. As for the rest of the Old Testament, at Masses they kept reading from books that were nowhere to be found in my super-sized study Bible. Anyway, isn’t “Tobit” one of the Hobbits?
As a Protestant, I ran to the throne of grace several times a day with my laundry list of conveniences and wishes: a parking place, twenty thousand dollars for a missions trip, a miraculous healing for my eighty-two-year-old grandmother. As a Catholic, I came to understand – very slowly, as a child does – that in this world struggle is inevitable. So is sickness and pain. And even death. The redemption is not in how we avoid these things, but in how God equips us for heaven through these experiences.

Raising the Child in Me

And so, I can think back on my “Saintlie” days, and smile ruefully. Even the appearance of spiritual perfection is a lot harder to pull off with two rambunctious preschoolers. Now I simply try, with God’s help, not to give in to spiritual schizophrenia, a common malady among those of us who struggle to “keep up appearances” – even with hearts full of muck and old, self-inflicted scars.
As a child of God – a Catholic child, that is – I found secret liberation: There was no need to keep mending the tatters I’ve torn and muddied with all my sinful blunderings. In the sacraments, God has provided a place where my failings may be remembered and washed away in tears of penitence, my heart can receive the healing balm of absolution, and my soul is called to feast upon the Bread of Angels. Still a long way from perfection, as I linger in His Presence, like a child fresh from the bath, I savor that light sweetness and inwardly resolve to try a little harder to stay clean. Not for me – at least, not entirely. Certainly not to impress others. Simply to please Him.
Released from the false burden of superficial spirituality, I don’t have to flit from church to church like Gidget, or distract myself from reality like Marvin, even if I feel a twinge of discomfort. Discomfort, I’ve discovered, is not always a bad thing: It is impossible to grow by maintaining status quo. If I am offended by something I see or hear, I’ve learned that the solution is not switching churches. God is more concerned about my soul than my fickle sensibilities, and He uses people in my life (often the very ones who rankle me most) to bring to light my own shortcomings. I can shut myself off from my brothers and sisters in Christ, or open up trust them – and Him.
Prayer is the area in which, as a Catholic, I learned the truth of the spiritual principle “less is more.” The staccato supplications and intercessions, with exact specifications on everything God should and should not do before our next daily appointment, are (if not yet totally a thing of the past) fewer and farther between. In my second childhood of faith, I’ve relinquished my inner “Cryroom Commando” and “Chattering Charlie,” and found that letting go of overly dramatic and verbose forms of prayer (at least in public) has enabled me to tap into a deeply satisfying, prayerful silence. Charlie still roars from time to time, but I’m fairly certain I don’t scare the angels anymore.
As for the “Busy Bees…” well, let’s just say I’m a work in progress. Last week I noticed a certain announcement in the bulletin, calling for the fourth time for someone to fill in a needed spot on a church committee. I pointed it out to Craig, wondering idly if I should just do it. My mild-mannered husband sputtered, “Are you kidding me?” He was right. My Bible-teaching, hymn-singing, missions-minded self was overextended – again – in well-intended but ultimately misguided “service.” I was still learning to apply to my heart what my head already knew: God is more concerned about my fidelity to the “inner circle” of my vocation – my husband and family – than that I take on other areas of influence. Now is not the time to branch out; God is calling, “Sink your roots a little deeper.”

Have You Suffered a Child Today?

After corralling my two preschoolers through a typical Sunday Mass, I have a fresh appreciation for what Jesus meant when he told his disciples, “Suffer the little children to come unto me, and do not hinder them, for such is the kingdom of heaven.” Devotion, like holiness, is not passed through the bloodstream, but “caught” gradually, over time.
Oh, sure, I’ve read those “How to tame your little monsters in three Masses or less” articles, but I’ve never believed them. I mean, God designed the family, the domestic church, as the means by which each of its members are sanctified, a process that must be measured in years, not weeks. In a sense, our children are our passports to heaven – and God knows that particular visa is worth more than three weeks’ humiliation.
So, if your particular faith community is one of those that believes nurseries are for wimps and delinquents-in-training, take heart. If the “cry room” is the only place you can get a moment’s peace each week, go ahead and cry. It’s only a matter of time before you can return those lessons in humility – by embarrassing your teenager.

Heidi Hess Saxton is a freelance writer and editor, foster mother and theology student. She and her family reside in Milan, Michigan, and she may be reached at hsaxton@christianword.com.

Appointment TV: Nanny 911

Whenever we happen to be home on a Wednesday night, my husband and I find it cathartic to turn on Fox's new program "Nanny 911." The little dickenses and their clueless parents give new meaning to the term "boob tube," and we usually go to bed feeling like superior parents.... unless, that is, the antics of those particular little dickenses are just a wee bit familiar.
Take tonight, for instance. The darling little girl split her time between hitting her mother (herself a former nanny, to the great consternation of "Nanny Stella," the Brat Exterminator) and pummelling her little brother. "You've got to take charge, get control," the Nanny kept telling Mummy Dearest. "There have to be consequences..."
Ah, yes. Consequences. Reminds me of the time a social worker, who was preparing us to be foster parents, gave us a lecture on "setting natural consequences" for the kids who would soon be in our charge. First she modeled it for us (by writing our names on the chalkboard after we returned five minutes after the prescribed time, having let us out fifteen minutes later than she said she would), then proceeded to lecture us on why leaving a kid's bike in the driveway to be stolen or run over was a "more natural" (e.g. better) consequence than having the "Bike Fairy" make it disappear for a week.
What would have been a lot more useful, now, would have been if Super Social Worker had given us tips on what to do when...

* The four-year-old not only wets his bed but all four walls by standing up and holding himself like a firehose until one of us makes it into his room and ushers him in to the bathroom.

* The two-year-old will not leave her clothes on for more than 3.5 seconds at a time, exactly the amount of time she needs to spill an infintessimal drop of water or other liquid, so that her only recourse is to strip naked and run, shrieking with glee, around the kitchen island.

* The last "sibling visit" went so well that my son brought home not one but TWO new euphamisms for his... um, bathing suit area.

* Sarah protests naptime by opening up her dresser drawers and strewing ALL the clothes on the floor in a vain attempt to find her "Hap Class" tights. When I finally find her, she is wearing nothing but her tutu skirt pulled up to her armpits... and a contented smile.

* The last thing he whispers to me before closing his eyes for the night is, "I don't want to live here anymore.... I want to live at Daddy's WORK!" (Apparently the fish tank there is much cleaner than the swamp on top of his dresser.)

So how about it, Stella? Care to take a shot?

Dear Preschool Teacher...

Dear Teacher:

We have decided to remove our son from your preschool program. We had hoped a little structured classroom experience would help to prepare him for kindergarten next fall. However, it seems that we overestimated his readiness, and have decided to find a program more suited to an active child. Before we go, however, I wanted to say, "I'm sorry."

• I'm sorry that, unlike the other little lambs in your program, he spent so much time shooting imaginary lasers and playing "Superheroes" with the other boys. My son must have stronger leadership qualities than I'd realized, to get the other boys to run around like banshees against their will.
• I'm sorry that other parents objected to their children learning bad words like "dead" and "kill" from Christopher, and that they considered him a "bad influence." (He clearly got the better end of the deal, bringing home words like, "I'm stupid," and "I'm dumb.") We are especially sorry Christopher could not teach them even more important words -- like "tolerance" and "compassion."
• I'm sorry that our parenting skills, which we acquired on the fly after taking three traumatized siblings into our home at once, are not up to the challenge of driving away every negative memory of his previous living situation, and that he still has bad days.
• We are sorry that his anger and distrust of men surfaced unexpectedly when Mr. Music Teacher rebuked him in front of the class, and our son retaliated by kicking the man in the shins. (I was there at the time and, personally, I felt like doing the same.)
• We apologize for Christopher's sulking when the class bully pestered and teased him... right in front of his own mother, who did absolutely nothing to stop her son.
• I am sorry you think that I have been neglecting Christopher, fitting his schedule around our work and school commitments. I'm sorry that he was forced to wear the same St. Michael costume for both angel day and saint day, and that I put him in store-bought wings rather than the painstakingly home-crafted variety.
• I apologize for not getting up at four in the morning, like other kids' moms, to create a four-course "snack" for thirty-five children, and for resorting to pre-packaged bagels and cream cheese. I'm sorry for bringing only homemade cookies, instead of forty-two from-scratch pies and twelve cheesecakes, for the charity fundraiser. Martha Stewart I am not.
• I am sorry that you felt compelled to treat us like four-year-olds, rather than have the adults talk amongst themselves about their concerns, and that it was two months into the school year before your laundry list was complete, and the situation so untenable that the only solution was to remove my son from the program and his friends.
• Most of all, I am sorry that our family as a whole did nothing to enhance the utopic environment that you and the other parents expect. Had I realized that it was not enough to shell out almost $800 a month, but that we had to be perfect as well, I would not have foisted our imperfect selves upon you all. I find it very sad that you all have boundless compassion and energy to help a group of children on the other side of the world, but could not find it in your hearts to empathize with our situation.

I'm sure it will be a relieve you all not to have Christopher around to scapegoat and me to judge and criticize. Or maybe not -- who will shoulder responsibility when it turns out your little angels are just as energetic and distractable when Christopher is no longer around to take the blame?

Round One: The Fight Begins

One morning when you least expect it, you'll look in the mirror and find it looking back at you. The phantasm bears a slight resemblance to your familiar self, except... Is it possible that your husband installed a trick mirror while you were dozing, just for kicks? This gal has...

• Eyes bloodshot from getting up every two hours with one toddler's night terrors and the other's asthma attacks.
• Stomach is rumbling from not eating a decent meal since... What is this? May?
• Throat is raw from screaming like a fishwife, just to hear yourself above the din.
• In the same set of sweats you've worn all week, sans bra. Even to the doctor's office.

And as the bathroom door reverberates with the pounding of three insistent sets of little fists, you pray the lock will hold long enough for you to sit down for five seconds and have one coherent thought.

Suddenly, it hits you:

This is not what I signed up for. I don't recognize that ghoulish figure in the mirror. She's grouchy. She's wrinkled and rumpled, and so are her clothes. She smells like baby barf. Make her go away.

Easier said than done. But if you watch my back, and I watch yours, maybe we can figure this out together. We'll get those Mommy Monsters.