I have dark eyes and you have blue

Everyone says Abby looks like me. And she does...in a your Native American and I'm a white girl,we share no DNA, sort-of way. I like that we look alike(ish). It's nice to share brown hair and high cheek bone with my little girl, and it makes things easier to look similar.

Yet...

Abby has been taking inventory of those in our family with blue eyes and those with brown. So far its 5 to 1 blue to brown. Except for if you count the dog (and we do) then its 5 to 2.

The point is: she knows. She knows she's different, and she gets a confused and sad look in her eyes. I adore, adore, adore my little girl, and I love her dark eye, but I think she wishes she had blue eyes. And for that hurt there is no "kiss it and make it better." trick in my bag. I could never wish away such a beautiful feature, I love who she is...but I would wish away the hurt and confusion in a heartbeat.

The Desert

I struggle with contentment.

Always.

Maybe this is everyone's story, but it is, most particularly and poignantly mine.

I have my dad's wanderlust, and creative spirit, but with a mother-heart need to nurture. It chafes. And I am raw with twisting. I look for some breathing room in this straightjacket life - this crazy blessed straight-jacket life.

The need to create stability and predictability for my crew is at odds with my dreamer me - the other one who get's so little face time. Case in point : the only class I nearly flunked (aside from high school physics - which doesn't count) was home economics. This is not my forte. I strongly and passionately dislike home economics. Strongly. Passionately.

That 1950's image of motherhood sticks like popcorn wedged in my gum. I can't sew. I hate to craft, and flunked out of scrapbooking (sidenote: how is scrapbook a verb - tell me this). I never send thank-you cards or birthday wishes. I only learned to bake because I like cookies. I can cook and like to, but my family would rather eat hot dogs. I refuse to iron. Laundry is a bane. I like a clean houses; I just don't like to clean it. I suck at coordinating play dates. I hate planning birthday parties. And I do not particularly enjoy playing nice with other parents at my childrens' sporting events. Hotwheels drive me crazy. I vacuum up Barbie shoes. I'm not even the finance person in my marriage - balancing the budget is Eddie's job. He does it better.

Luckily, I do like to garden - so there is that.

I need a homemaker wife, wife #2 or something. The details of this proposition are still a bit obscure seeing as I am dead set against polygamy, particularly in my own marriage. It would help if I got to be the head wife, and wife #2 was fatter and uglier than I am. But still, it's problematic don't you think? So the kicker is this: somebody has got to do the homemaking. Homemaking is important and necessary work. I just don't want to do it.

But I love my kids.
I love my husband.
I love them so much it hurts.

I am good at things too; they just aren't homemaker-ish. I'm a good teacher. I can write. I can manage complex projects and solve complex issues. I'm more creative than most. I can paint. I can sing. I can write a curriculum and I am an adept student.

Can't iron!

I have a little girl who thrives on structure, and simplicity. She does well with order and slow, measured steps. When we live like this she blooms, she blossoms into the best version of herself.

But I am dying here.

I cried out to God -
"I see desert. For miles and years stretched out in front of me. If I take the next step my following step will be the same - blistering my feet with the redundancy. 40 years of slow measured steps and crock-pots, is this it? Is this all I get? Because I cannot do it; this long obedience is too long. I see sand, and beating sun to the horizon, and my soul shrivels at the thought. Hope to dust and blown away. I need a new vision. Something less sand and heat,and not this barren land of same slow death."

I cried to God tasting the salt as grief escapes. There is shame in this, so I never let the grief out. What kind of mother wrestles with her role, and shake her fists like I do? Good moms don't. But at last the grief is a torrential downpour. And my tears water the desert.

The desert stays.
I have no other landscape.
God did not remove it.

40 years stretch out and it's all desert. The same desert. Simple, slow life. Unseen service. My feet on the ground moving in the same direction; long obedience is the calling.

When I quit my teaching position, I was so terribly sad to give up a job I loved. I knew it was best for my family; I didn't think it was best for me. Yet God showed me that hard things were for my good too. He could bring me into a spacious place, a place with elbow room and a chance to breath deep. I had hope.

I didn't know the spacious place would be a freaking desert.

I prayed to God for a new landscape. He said no. There will be no wife #2- fat and ugly. I am to be the homemaker. Yet the desert is more than I can perceive, and he has offered to walk with me through it -to open my eyes so I can see true. Desert land is more than redundancy. It is a land of great intensity, and variety. It's hot by day, and cold at night. And the desert blooms with spring rain - flagrant color. It is nocturnal animals, clever amphibians, survivalist tendencies and divine design. The desert may be arid, but it is not barren. It is not barren. There is life here in this place. In this calling there is hope. Strangely, I find that I cannot see these things if I walk away from the God of the Desert - even but a step. I see sand and years away from Him. But when the steady hand of Divinity entwines my vision gets tangled too. And I see with His eyes: the desert is a place of beauty.

Hi, nice to meet you...think carefully before you agree to be my friend.

I used to be kinda hip and fun, and generally a low-maintenance friend. Not so much anymore. Because anytime we choose to care for kids of trauma we adopt their trauma too. In fact, a very large majority of people parenting FASDers end up being treated for post-traumatic stress. Trauma is contagious. And this makes for a messy life. Messy is not terribly attractive. And, sadly, I do understand why casual friends won't choose to stick around. They miss fun and hip. Heck, I miss fun and hip.

I read a statistic just recently that said 80% of families who adopt special needs kids find themselves abandoned by friends, family and church. They literally become outcasts. When fun and hip become broken and messy people head for the hills.

I feel so very blessed that the story of the majority is not our story. We have great friends who love us even in the mess. We have a church community who has not run for the hills. And our families, though they sometimes think us nuts, have not been scared off yet.

It's part of the job, but it's in the fine print

When I signed up for this motherhood gig I thought the job was mostly about rocking babies and pushing jogging strollers. Really. I was THAT clueless. But there nothing like "living it" day in and day out that helps to bring reality into focus. And apparently, this parenthood deal is a bit more complicated than I first assumed.

I am Butt Wiper in Chief. I have been wiping other peoples butts for over a decade now. Yes, it's been 10 long years of monitoring the elimination patterns of persons who um...aren't me. We should be closing on this season of Derriere Care, but in a cruel twist of fate, our youngest has a prognosis that includes extended potty training years. But someday, maybe even someday soonish, there will be nary a diaper in the place and I'll never here, "Mah-ummmm (my kids can make mom a 2 syllable word) I need you to come wipe my buns." Moms of older kids remind me that I'll miss these days, but I can't imagine grieving the title, "Butt Wiper in Chief."

There is another role that was probably in the fine print of the job description - the fine print I never read. It's a role that IS rather extraordinary and unfortunately a challenge for me. It's that of a humble listener. This weekend was crazy, and today my kids need me to be present, and available. They've all needed to come over and sit with me awhile. Abby just sat snuggling and talked my ear off for 20 minutes. The others have done the same. Kids need to be heard and seen -they need to know I think they are worth knowing, not 'cause they are my kids, but just 'cause they're cool.

I was really grumpy this morning, especially about the chaos of our house. Messiness makes me crazy. My kids LOVE to wallow in messiness. It's a difference we have yet to resolve. So as the morning went on my anxiety mounted as I realized I was losing the battle. Just in the nick of time (almost - I bit the heads off of only two of my children for general slobbery.)I quit caring. It's just mess - the mess will always be here. My kids, probably won't always want to sit on my lap and tell me about their lego creations, or the book their reading, or pretend to feed me plastic food. Carpe Diem right?

What is normal?

I haven't been blogging much lately because all I have to say is sort of depressing and un-fun. Depressing and un-fun is okay now and then in bogger-world, but really, nobody wants to read that all the time. I wouldn't want to read it all the time.

So you have been duly warned.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store with my littlest. This is always a challenge, so much so that I have totally forgotten what it's like to buy groceries like normal people do. I know as I go from isle to isle people think, "That is a seriously bratty kid, why doesn't her mother put a stop to the behavior." Several years ago that is what I would have thought if I had seen someone like me walking through the store. But I have learned that what you see is not always the whole story.

First, you must know, grocery stores are almost intolerable for youngest. There are unusual and unpredictable sounds. There are too many people. There are weird florescent lights and transitions at every turn of the isle. It is overwhelming on every level and Abby becomes dis-regulated quickly. Dis-regulated is therapeutic parenting speak for when a kid cannot manage what's happening on the inside (i.e.anxiety or nuero-chemical wackiness) or outside (environment) appropriately. Disregulated kids shut-down, or rage, or act really bizarrely.

Now all of us are constantly "regulating" our responses to internal and external stimuli. For instance, loud parties stress me out and make me feel anxious, so I prepare mentally before I go. I find corners to hide away in when the noise becomes too much. I "regulate" my response.

The trouble for kids of trauma, SPD, or brain damage is that they are working with severe disadvantages. Their cortisol, nor-epinephrine, dopamine, and seretonin levels can be totally wacky. From a chemical standpoint they are unable to regualate. Add in a little post-traumatic stress, or dysmaturity and you have a DISASTER in the making. And were not even addressing the sensory regulation that should be happening in the brain stem (but isn't) or the frontal cortex that misfires and causes poor impulse control. Bottom line: what you see as the behavior of a bratty or weird kid, but there is so much going on behind behavior that makes it impossible for kids to meet the expectations of society.

So when you see my kid screaming and hitting at the grocery store please know that both my daughter and I are working extremely hard to keep it together. We've worked hours to even be at a place to make it through. Before we even get to the store we have done "heavy work" or spent time in the therapy swing. We've done joint compression to change brain chemistry.

My daughter will probably go through an entire pack of gum because the chewing motion changes brain chemistry too. She might be wearing tight leggings and no shoes. I do not need your two cents about how to keep my child warm. Her lack of footwear is intentional. It helps her regulate. She might have a potty accident or two, or she might be four years old and wearing a diaper because she literally cannot manage "potty" stuff with everything else going around her Abby might be belligerent, run away, or scream and yell. Please know that we do not allow the behavior, but spanking is entirely ineffective. It might look I am using distraction or bribery; I am. Because when my daughter is overwhelmed typical consequences cause her freak out even more. It would be like trapping a wounded animal in a corner... a stupid thing to try.

You take going to the grocery store for granted, but for us it is a major feat. It takes 2 hours, and one melt-down screaming tizzy fit is progress for us. We've worked hard for that. We will both come home exhausted. We will talk it through, and roll play appropriate responses. And next time it may, or it may not, go any better.

4 year old in the house.

It's Abby's birthday today. She's 4, and my how time flies. Just yesterday we brought her home, it seems.

Birthday festivities were simple, b/c simple is the best plan for Abby. We had hot dogs, watermelon and french fries for dinner. Her choice. Then we ate Umizoomi Birthday cake and opened presents. It was just the 6 of us and she was happy with that. I am not a lover of birthday party planning.I hate it. So it does my heart good to prepare a simple little affair for Abby and know that it was the best possible choice for her as well. Motherhood sans guilt, it doesn't happen often so I enjoy the moments when they come.

Abby is a challenge. She is. So it helps that she is so stinking cute I cannot stay frustrated. Plus, she is so loving and sweet. Her trouble with transitions and sensory input sometimes hide the kindness and goodness that motivate her. Abby just wants to please, and shines with affirmation. She finds pleasure in the simple things and has just about the best belly laugh I've ever heard. She is affectionate and silly and absolutely crummy at holding a grudge. We so love her and feel so blessed she is part of our family.

Happy Birthday Sweet Girl.

Unicyle

I bought the kids some flip-flops for our upcoming camping trip to The Sand Dunes. They were cheap - even for me, and I'm pretty much the master of cheapness. $.50 is a price that can only be beat by free. Anyway, the kids wanted to know if they were girl or boy flip-flops. "There unisex," I replied, "both boys and girls can wear them."

Emma caught on quickly, "So when I outgrow mine I can give them to Caleb, and when Caleb outgrows his he can give them to Abby."

Caleb took a minute to ponder this one, and then joined in. "That's the great thing about unicycles."