Growing Family

What We're Doing

Okay, so it seems about time to write a post about foster care/adoption, and what we're doing next. I have to be direct and say that for us, bringing a child into our family is essentially an act of faith, and my discussion of it here won't avoid that.

I read heaps of blogs, book after book, and endlessly seek to understand the issues, the trends, the needs, the whole picture when it comes to adoption and foster care. In the end, the choices we make are intensely personal, and rise from a place of faith. 

All those years in Australia, we tried to make adoption happen. When we started fostering we were told some families end up adopting children they foster, even though the program isn't set up to facilitate that. Each time we felt the nudge (or the the push) from the Lord, we took a step. Our journey is filled with incredible God stories, and we are so thankful.

Coming to the US, we knew that bringing a permanent child into our family was a really big piece of this next season, but we had no clarity on when or how or from where. Years ago, newly comprehending the complexity and challenging power dynamics in domestic voluntary infant adoptions, I thought that adopting through foster care, or a child with special needs seemed to be two avenues I would feel ethically clear about.

In our search for a church home here in Houston, we spent several weeks going to nice places, but not feeling home. Then, one day we drove farther afield and found ourselves in a service that just felt so right. In that first service, in the worship time, I saw a visual picture in my mind, of a little girl. I received an impression of her age, her ethnicity, and that she would be found here in Houston, in the foster care system. This was the first specific indication I had of a way to get to our next child. I tucked it away in my mind for further thought later.

In the car on the way home, The Captain and I each asked each other, tentatively, "so, what did you think?" The whole family felt immediately at home, and we decided then and there, that this would be our new church. Beyond that, it turns out that during the service, The Captain had also received an impression from God that our next child would be coming through foster care.

While I feel weird talking about this so openly on the internet, it is what it is. This is how we hear things, and this is how we often make the transition from waiting for direction to taking a step forward.

We're neck deep in paperwork with a local child welfare agency that contracts with the state for foster care, foster to adopt, and adoptive placements. Their training regimen involves twelve classes that both of us have to attend, without children, nearly an hour away. We've looked at the schedule backward and frontward, but are having trouble seeing any quick or easy way to get through it.

As a foster parent with a current licence in Australia, and as an experienced adoptive parent, it is tempting to get annoyed with having to sacrifice this much time, energy, (and money for the babysitters), to go through trainings that we will most likely already be very familiar with, but I keep thinking, "on the other end of this I will be trusted with a life - my child - the classes are really no big deal to get to that."

At the same time, we don't have the time or the babysitters to make this training schedule happen, so once again it is one of those situations where we've taken a step forward, and now we do a bit of waiting to see what God does or says next. One thing I know for sure, is that the next step will be clear, because on this, to us, He always is. Timing has always been perfect (if not sensible to me), it has always been the right child at the right time, and the right resource has always been provided when needed. If this thing moves fast or moves slow, it will be right, because God will be working the details. 

Celebrating Autumn

I had forgotten how much I absolutely LOVE autumn in North America. Here is what we are enjoying these days...

HOME

THE SMELLS

Salted Caramel candles, Pumpkin Spice Candles, and Evergreen candles

Damp earth and leaves

Fragrances from the oven and the pot

Steaming tea

 

 SCHOOL FESTIVALS

 

FIELD TRIPS

FOOD!

Bluebell Pumpkin Spice Ice Cream with Chai Sugar cookies

Huge organic apples

Pumpkin Coconut Milk Curry Soup

Banana Choc Cake

Zucchini bread

Soups, Stews, and Cornbread

Chai Lattes

Root Vegetables (turnips, parsnips, carrots, potatoes, beets)

Herbs from the garden

Caramel Apples

I passed this note in the grass this week, and now will pass it on to you. Life is beautiful. My life, your life, this whole thing, pleasure and pain, is beautiful.

Night Talking

The beauty of my marriage is lying in bed, late at night, on the brink of sleep, and letting all the clutter of my mind slip out of my mouth and wisp away. The beauty of my marriage is that my husband listens when I need it most, when I am taut to bursting, overwhelmed by thoughts.

I am thankful for a husband that listens, because in the move I have lost all my other, regular, ears.

As a mother, I get together with other mothers, and we all talk about our kids. It seems trivial, or mundane, but it is so refreshing. Everyone is worrying about something for their child, as well as carrying joy and pride. We all take turns trotting our fears around the table, and celebrating our children's successes. Upon leaving, the thing we worried about coming in seems smaller, lighter, after having shared it with friends and encouraging them over their own concerns.

My parenting worries have been filling my head like fairy floss (cotton candy), spinning larger and larger until my whole brain is a sticky, non substantive mess. Without friends to call for a cup of tea, the thoughts spin round, and round, picking up mass, clogging my mind.

Last night it all slipped out, in the dark. One of the things I most love about my husband is his solidity. He is unmoved by my fears, completely convinced that things will all be right in the end. When nothing I say rattles him, I turn over, and fall asleep, all my fears having lost their weight in the speaking of them.

 

School Conflict

This week I am unhappy with the big kid's school. I am very happy with the school administration, they are fabulous, but I am unhappy with some of the things going on with the students.

The problem is, I don't know if I have unrealistic expectations. I have just left this magical little bubble of a school where everyone embraced our values. You knew that chances were 9 our ot 10 that if your child went to play at another family's house, their approach to discipline and media would be similar to yours. You knew they would be safe, and that they wouldn't be watching some freaky movie.

Friday Sprout came home and told me that her third grade reading buddies insisted on choosing a book with naked babies in it (which I'm sure were cartoony and fine). She described in detail the sexual gestures and statements they continued to repeat, with the book as a starting point, even though she asked them to stop. This is not the first situation of the kids coming home and asking about hand gestures depicting straight and gay sex. 

I emailed the teacher, who got right on it. The situation must have caused a stir because Small Sun came home saying that the girls in question went to the office. He was given a message by another third grader "tell your sister she's lying. Those two girls didn't do anything wrong, your sister is lying."

Sprout told me she had been afraid to tell me because she didn't want to get in trouble. 

I don't think that navigating exposure to more adult sexual information should be the job of first grade.

Last week a child splashed hand sanitizer in another child's eye ("on purpose"), and the hurt child went home. Also last week, one child chucked a large piece of mulch, hitting another child in the head, where she already had stitches that were healing. 

Small Sun learned the "real F word", which, as it turns out, is not "stupid."

In Sprout's class there are a few children who have been sent home mid-day for extreme misbehavior, and many afternoons include recounts of endless classtime lost with classroom management.

A girl in Sprout's class told the story of Chucky - the horror movie. Fortunately, Sprout thought she was saying "Chookie" (chicken), so it didn't make much sense to her. She has found the girls in her class to be manipulative. The same one who tells about Chucky also talks about Satan killing Jesus, and cries and causes drama if Sprout says she doesn't want to participate in her recess "storytimes". 

I've heard about lots of lying.

So here's the thing - I want to be able to share about sex freely with my kids, when I think they are old enough. I want to have the conversation about drugs - I don't want the school having it from preschool on up for me (and they do). I don't want to keep my kids in a sheltered bubble, but I want them to be in a safe and kind environment where their job is learning - learning reading, maths, science, technology, english, and everything else.  The things they need to learn about as they grow up, and need to know about the world, are things I want to be communicated by a loving and thoughtful parent, not a fourth grader on the playground. I want their peers to be kids who are in families that value kindness, honesty, responsibility, and discipline. 

I don't know if this is a public vs private school issue, or if this is America and I'm just not used to it, or if I am too sensitive and need a thicker skin. What I do know is that what I hear coming home from school often makes me feel unhappy, and I don't know what to do about it. I have many good friends doing public school, and feeling happy with it. I also have many friends homeschooling or hybrid homeschooling. When do you keep going, and hope it gets better, and when to cut your losses and make a change?

There are so many things I am really happy with at this school, but unfortunately, the kids aren't one of them...and that's kind of a big part. I'd love your thoughts. 

Embarrassing Finch

Finch is four years old and has finally mastered the art of wiping his own bum. It was a long time coming. He still lacks confidence in his skills, so several times a day he runs in, lacking waist down clothing, and upturns himself into downward dog asking, "is my bum all clean?" 

Finch is also starting to learn about privacy, and the need for it in the bathroom, and out of the shower.

Three separate scenes for your amusement-

Scene 1 At Home

My friend and I are in the kitchen, chatting, when Finch trots in for the clean check. He is completely unperturbed by the presence of my friend. Back in the bathroom he calls out "can you close the door? I need some privacy."

Scene 2 At the Ballet Studio

I take Finch to the toilet, and wait for him to do his business. "Don't look, I'm meked*" he says, climbing up onto the toilet. I turn away politely. A minute later he upturns his little posterior for inspection. Receiving the all clear he says "I need some privacy." Okay...

Scene 3 At Home

This week he used the toilet as usual. Then the clean check, as usual. "Don't see me meked!"

I admit I was feeling cheeky, and said, calmly, as if it was nothing, "you know Finch, when you were born, you were n-ked." 

He froze, shocked, unbelieving.

"No, I had on some baby pajamas." he said with conviction.

"No, you didn't. You were n-ked when you were born, and when you were in my womb, you were also n-ked." I let it fall, heavy, like a bag of flour, in the space between us, he with one leg in his trousers, and one out.

I raised one eyebrow and waited. He finished with his trousers.

"But then you put me in some little baby clothes, right mom?"

Assured that I had, he ran off to play, while I enjoyed a little chuckle.

Four years old is so cute.

*Meked=n-ked 

Grandaddy

A lovely old tree in our front yard has dropped two large limbs this week. It was only Sunday after my permaculture class on improving soil through mulching that I was thinking "I really just need some good organic matter in my garden that I can stick in a corner to compost." Then, limbs started falling from the sky. Well, from overhead, at least.

I tackled the first one when it fell, only to have another come down this morning. Armed with my power tools, that is a small hand saw, pruning sheers, and loppers (not to mention the muscles my children routinely request a viewing of over dinner), I set to work.

I slice and dice the branches into three piles - small, thin twigs and leaves, branches about finger thick, and longer, straight, 1"-2" thick branches. I cut the large branch up with my hand saw. Yes, I do.

I love doing this kind of work. Today it is in the low 70s, which is heavenly after a sweltering summer. The methodical cutting, stripping the leaves, and organizing the piles is so enjoyable. I cut the pile of small stuff even smaller and use it to build up a raised brick bed whose soil has settled significantly over the years.

There is a little place in the corner of the yard that could be a garden, if the soil could be retained on the slope. Right now it washes onto the driveway without a chance of staying put. I set to cutting my branches in lengths, using the curves to create a shapely, tiered line. In permaculture this is called a swale - creating a barrier to catch rainwater so that it doesn't escape. 

Then I use the smaller branches to block the gaps under the larger branches, and keep layering my materials until the last leaves are thrown on top, to decompose and fill in the gaps of the sticks and branches.

About two hours in I wonder "why do I do this? What is it about me that sees a dead branch and instead of calling the tree guys to come take care of it (on my landlord's bill), gets out there and sweeps up every scrap of leaf, dreaming of what this branch could become, and taking pleasure in using something to meet another need?"

My mind flicks back years and years to my grandparent's kitchen. "Don't throw that away, I can use that for..." says my tall, lanky grandfather with his sweater vest and his twinkly eyes. He was the original MacGyver. I bet he fixed the tractor with bottle tops, or built the henhouse out of someone's discarded floor boards. He invented "recycle, repurpose, reuse", and upcycling is all he ever did.

He collected the day old pastry and bread from a major bakery chain, and then distributed it to hungry people far and wide. He collected the discarded produce from the local market, and carefully picked through it for the pieces that were still good. We always had boxes and boxes of fruit and veg that was "almost finished' but wasn't yet. The rest went to the cow and the chickens and the compost - all used, none wasted.

As a teenager I would have rolled my eyes when he said "don't throw that away..." (well, not rolled my eyes, as I did want to live!). Now, it doesn't seem so odd. This morning, knee counterbalancing a branch, as I sawed away, I realized, I get this from him.

My grandfather died when I was in Australia.

I never felt particularly close to him.  It was like the link in the chain between he, my mother, and I, had somehow lost its conductivity and I was cut off from his life's energy. But today I feel it. I know. I am from him in a way I have never fathomed, in a way that shapes my life, reguardless of my understanding or acknowledging his influence.

 I set the straight and strong sticks up in a corner to defoliate - a ready supply of bow sticks for my daughter who is always making bows and arrows. She herself is quite the innovator, saving scrips and scraps, turning them into creations that please her. 

I smile and carry my tools inside, having turned a fallen limb into a future garden, and found a connection to my grandfather that was right in front of me the whole time. 

Deep Silence

My children have been at school for about seven weeks now. Finch goes half days so every single day I have half a day to myself. Every single day.

For the last eight years I devoted myself to listening, and attempting to stay present, even when it was the last thing I wanted to do.

Now, having mornings all to myself I can run errands with no children in tow, sit with my laptop in a quiet house, or clean without constant interruption; it is like a dream come true. I pop into the post office, and if there is a line, I don't have to play my best game of I Spy. If I forget something from the grocery, no worries, I can just run in and get it. I don't have to mastermind buying children's birthday presents without them seeing them or siblings telling them what's been bought. 

After an exhausting day last week I fell asleep after getting home from the school pick up. While I slept for an hour (okay an hour and a half if I'm totally honest), my kids made their own afternoon tea and put on a movie I had approved for them. Another mom from school absorbed this story in shock "Your kids are self-sufficient enough that you can do that?" she asked in disbelief. I can remember when the idea seemed too impossible to imagine, as I juggled a baby on my hip while making dinner, with another child playing blocks on the floor.

In all this new found freedom, the ease that comes with having no tiny children, the thing that has been most meaningful is silence. I have been waiting eight years for silence. For the last eight years I have been an introvert feeling like I was drowning in constant chatter.

There were so many times I felt just ragged from interacting long past when I felt I couldn't listen any more, or be touched anymore, or give anymore. 

I've always been a person who loves people, but needs a meaningful amount of recovery time after expending social energy. Parenting multiple young children doesn't really accomodate times for social disengagement. I did my best (and do) with a standing "quiet rest time" that gave me the opportunity to step back and have a break. With babies, it was a goal I worked towards, and as my children got older it was more successful.

I love my quiet mornings. I love arriving home after the school drop off, and walking into an empty house. I love knowing I have several hours to get into a messy project, work in my garden, or get some work done. I love four hours of not talking, or being spoken too. 

After eight years of being stretched past capacity, this introvert can finally catch a breath, and it is so wonderful.

Tell me, what parts of motherhood take all your energy, and what can't you ever imagine doing again?