Red Tape

We have spoken with 2 congressmen, 2 senators, a governor, 2 agencies, and 4 attorneys. In addition, friends who know people involved with children's services in Georgia and other states, have asked for help. Friends have asked personal attorneys for advice and help with our situation. The answer is always the same.

What happened is a travesty. Someone should have looked at the bigger picture and seen that these boys were happy, healthy, and thriving; but they didn't. Legally, the boys cannot be placed back in their home.

It would seem the bureaucratic red tape is strong enough to bind reason, logic, and sensibility.

The question that remains is exactly what IS happening as a result of all this.

With our case:

We know nothing about the boys and where they are except that they are together and not in this city. Basically, as a result of policy, they were uprooted again, but this time, in addition to changing schools and homes, they changed cities.

They once had our last name. They now have their birth name.

They were enrolled in baseball. They are no longer part of their team.

They had a family. They are now in foster care...again.

We are scheduled to say goodbye to them tomorrow.

The Office of the Child Advocate (OCA), which exists to make sure that the Department of Family and Children Services (DFCS)*** really does serve the best interest of families, has called to let us know they are investigating.

The head of DFCS for the state called this week to say that her attempts to contact our county office have yielded nothing. It was a “courteous call” to let us know she hadn't forgotten about our case, but she has not been able to actually talk with anyone at the county office (Had I not been so emotionally spent at the time, I would have said something snarky like, “Welcome to the club”).

With us:

Emotionally, every day gets “easier.” The only thing keeping us sane is the strength we are given by the prayers of everyone who has rallied behind us and the truth that God knows, understands, defends, loves, holds, and controls everything.

I have begun the process for medical clearance with the military. Basically, that means I have filled out a ton of paperwork and had doctors and dentists fill out a ton of paperwork, and am waiting to appear before a panel of a doctor, a mental health professional, and some other person to discuss said paperwork and prove that I am medically capable of accompanying my husband on an overseas assignment.

We are trying to sell a house in a dying market. UGH!

We are trying to remember what it is like to be a family of two.

“I was made for this.”

That's what I told my therapist about one month after our boys came home. Now, in the aftermath of the disrupted placement, I'm remembering that meeting, and trying to figure out what happened. And I'm still trying to figure out how to live when the world just doesn't seem to be spinning correctly.

***Most states just call it the Department of Family Services. In light of our current reality, I find it interesting that Georgia distinguishes between family and children, as though they were two separate issues. Speaks volumes, people.

The Man of the House

As a military wife and mother of three boys, I am forever battling seemingly innocent statements that well-meaning teachers and neighbors say to my boys when my husband travels:

“You're the man of the house now.”

There is one man of our house. I'm married to him. He's 35 years old, 6 feet tall, and weighs 210 pounds. And even when the military sends him away for a few weeks, he's STILL the man of the house; and it would be really helpful if everyone would quit confusing my 9-year-old.

See, Boo has a complex. A very understandable, but nevertheless disturbing complex. He's parentified. Because his birth mother was unable to care for him or his siblings, he, as the oldest, became the adult. Now, keep in mind, he entered foster care at the age of 6, which basically means that when most children were coloring outside the lines, watching Sesame Street, and learning letters, he was fixing dinner, cleaning house, and taking care of the family.

Now, at the age of 9, he has two parents who meet the family needs, stripping him from the very identity he has known. He literally has no idea how to be a kid. This parentification manifests in a variety of ways:

• ODD: Oppositional Defiant Disorder...which stems from a pervading belief that he is EQUAL to, and often more capable than, the adults in his life. As a result, he doesn't see the need to follow the rules that adults place on him.

• A complete lack of trust, coupled with an intense feeling of indestructibility. He doesn't trust adults to keep him safe, but at the same time, he will hitch a ride with a complete stranger because he is convinced he can take care of himself.

• Intense anger toward anyone who tries to “control” him.

• Undermining parental authority where his brothers are concerned. If we tell Little Man he can't have a snack, Boo will simply get him one or share his with him. He doesn't feel the need to ask permission to give his brother a piece of candy, even if that candy has proven to be a choking hazard and we have told him not to do so.

Now, when the hubs has to travel, this parentification is magnified by those individuals who encourage him to be “the man of the house.” In his mind, this reinforces the idea that his mother (yes, that would be me) isn't in charge and doesn't have the right to tell him what to do; and if she does tell him what to do, he simply doesn't have to listen. Couple this with his anger at his “absent” father and his fears of abandonment, and you get one very aggressive little boy.

We handle these situations the best we can, and the psychologist, psychiatrist, and therapist assure us that as he feels more secure and lets go of his need to parent, this aggression will subside. But in the meantime, I would simply ask one thing of everyone who suggests that my Boo is “the man of the house” when hubs is away:

SHUT UP AND LET ME PARENT!!!!

The F--- Word

When we knew we would be adopting an older child, we joked about what it would be like the first time our child dropped the F-bomb. We knew its appearance was inevitable. I always hoped that I would handle it rather nonchalantly, primarily because I have dropped my fair share.

It happened at approximately 6:30...and then again at 6:30:27...and again at 6:30:35. And it kept happening for the next 30 minutes or so, peppered with some other fine profane specimens.

And you know what? It was cathartic. I have never been more relaxed...more focused...more in love with my son...even if he did call me a crazy f***ing white b**** who....well, you get the idea.

I won't lie either. I brought it out of him. It NEEDED to come out of him. I am no stranger to anger. I held mine in for years and it almost killed me...literally...but that's another post. So when I saw the warning signs, I knew something had to give. And sometimes, kids dealing with anger are so afraid of the result that they will stuff the emotion until it can't be controlled. And sometimes, they need a little nudge in a safe environment where they can throw caution to the wind and get it all out. That's the environment I provided...and it didn't take much.

So for 30 minutes (maybe more) I let him scream and yell and get it all out. Five months of suppressed street kid came spewing out of that cute little mouth. Five months of street kid that he had been trying to hide and deny.

And by the grace of God, I never yelled back. I just told him the truth when spit out a lie, which really just made him more angry. It went something like this...sans profanity (you're welcome):

You don't love me. Yes, I do.

You're gonna send me back. No, I'm not.

Quit lying to me. I'm not.

You're crazy. Yes, a little.

You keep saying you love me but you don't. Yes, I do.

And this went on and on, in circles. Until somehow we ended up in the bathroom, me hugging him from behind:

Get your hands off me.

I'm hugging you. I can't hug you and let go at the same time. Do you want me to let go?

No.

And when it was over, he told me he hated that he said all those things, and I told him I didn't. I told him that the 9-year-old street kid that swore at me was the real kid I fell in love with. I have always known he was in there and I'm glad he showed up. And I explained that I was surprised it took 5 months.

We shared some very poignant, Hollywood-esque moments after that. At one point, he actually wiped my tears and said, “Mama, you ARE strong enough.” I kid you not. And then we went and picked up his brothers, whom I had sent to the neighbor's house for obvious reasons, walking arm in arm, crying and laughing, across the moonlit lawn.

And then we all ate chocolate cake. Seriously. Because chocolate makes everything better.