“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?”...“Earth!” he repeated. “What do you mean?”“To plant seeds in–to make things grow–to see them come alive,” Mary faltered. He gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes...“A bit of earth,” he said to himself, and Mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something. When he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind. “You can have as much earth as you want,” he said. “You remind me of some one else who loved the earth and things that grow. When you see a bit of earth you want," with something like a smile, “take it, child, and make it come alive.” “May I take it from anywhere–if it’s not wanted?”

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Yeah, that was my kid being dragged out of the car trunk at the library

No he was not dead. Although he was about to be dead meat. All over library books.

B and I went to the pool tonight. He found a toy torpedo. He said, "It's no one's. I found it, so it mine now." I reminded him, "Finders are not really keepers. It belongs to somebody else even if they aren't looking for it yet." On the way back from the pool I remembered that we had a bag of overdue library books in the car. So we swung by the library.

See, B and I discussed it, "Today we are returning all the books without renewing any." Well, he was having none of it. I sent him into the library because he at least was wearing a shirt with his swimming trunks. He took the books in and tried to sneak back into the car with two of the books that he decided to renew on his own. I sent him back to put them in the drop box. That's when he began to fly mad.

I learned the hard way to not let him in the car when he gets like that. I will blame it one the MickeyD's bag full of trash that he smacked the side of my face with repeatedly while I was trying to drive one night. So I told him to go sit on a nearby bench until he had himself together then he could get in the car and we could go home.

No, he climbed in the trunk of the car (the latch is broken). So I had to climb out of the car and drag him out of said trunk. Remember, I am still in only my black bathing suit. I have very pale skin and I have never claimed to be a small woman. Let me make it more clear:

The scene looked like a shrieking hairless orangutan wearing yellow shorts being dragged out a the trunk of a Nissan Sentra by pissed off Shamu in front of the public library. Yeah. Not cute. I really hope it doesn't end up on YouTube.

Not our best moment.

For the record, the meltdown lasted for 2 hours. I hate RAD. I really, really do.

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Angry Birds Stickers and Bedtime

Oh to have a place big enough for a playroom. B does not handle having toys in his room very well. When he goes to bed he often plays until he crashes...despite melatonin.

The other night I could hear him in his room talking and playing. So I whipped open the door and sternly said, "In bed!" He sheepishly turned from his desk where he was standing and said, "I'm not supposed to put these here, huh?" That's when I noticed the angry birds stickers on his nipples.

It's right up there with the time he came home from school with my name written across his belly. I will never know how he managed to get a pen and do it at school with no one catching him.

Mantra: "Just because it's not what you had in mind...

doesn't mean it's a bad thing."

I think I say this to B one hundred times a day. You see, with all his crazy diagnoses (we are now solidly sporting: RAD, PSTD, FAS, ADHD, ODD) there are some autistic-like behaviors that have been quite obvious. Both the neurologist and the geneticist blamed those behaviors on FAS. Anyway, B panics when things are not how he imagined them to be.

For instance, today the fam went to a restaurant for lunch, and then we went for a drive. B expected that we would eat and then go home so that he could play with his toys. Now, nobody mentioned this as a viable plan. This was simply what he thought should happen. When it did not, the anxiety started, manifested by chewing on his shirt, fingers and lips; heaving breathing; whining; and compulsive scratching. It took aromatherapy oils, deep pressure, deep breathing, snuggling, and the mantra to regulate him. I constantly ask him, "Are you going to die if it does not happen the way you expected? Are you going to be seriously hurt? Are you going to be without what you need? Are you in a safe place with safe people? Then, in the grand scheme of things, it's no big deal, right?" He realizes that I am not discounting what he is feeling, just helping him put it in perspective.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

A lot of my "letters" are rantings from my journal. This here is what I wrote the day after Mother's Day:

I started out yesterday mourning you for him--thinking I should somehow help him honor you. We went out for breakfast with Memaw (that's my mom--his new grandmother). We then went home and did some cleaning. Afterward, I took him to the park to let him play. That's when I got angry -- at you.

When we are at home, I don't always notice his deficits -- and I forget that he is 10 and not 5. But, when I take him out around other kids and see his difficulty and unwillingness to interact with his peers, I get angry and frustrated. When I see his fear of simple things...like monkey bars and swings, it makes me sick to my stomach. When I see him struggle to perform simple physical tasks, I struggle with hating you.

What you have done to him will stay with him forever. Sure, he will heal, but he will always have effects of the alcohol you drank when he was in your womb. He will make it, but he will always be haunted by the things you have personally done to him, allowed to be done to him, and simply failed to do for him. I am sorry for sounding harsh and unforgiving, but these are the feelings I struggle with. What I find so heart wrenching is that your inability to stop producing children you couldn't care for has damaged his ability to give and receive love--one of the most innate abilities we have as humans. It's unacceptable. It's inhumane. It's the worst form of abuse he has endured.

I truly hope that someday B is able to forgive you. I have made the choice to forgive you--although my feelings don't always follow my choices right away.

Even though I know you'll never read this: B is safe, he is loved, he is cared for and has a loving family. Most of all, he is happy.
Letters to his first mom...

Dear Kris,

Mother's Day was this past weekend and you have been on my mind a lot lately. Most of the time when I think about you, it is with disgust. I guess I am having a change of heart. I am beginning realize how much I owe. I can legitimately say this year that Branden is my son. I signed the adoption paperwork on April 9th. So it was over a month ago now.

I used to think that you didn't deserve a Mother's Day...a day in which we honor moms for their love and support. But, you see, no matter how I look at it, without you, I wouldn't have my son. He was inside you. You carried him there for 9 months. Your sustenance was his sustenance. You labored to bring him into this world. You sustained him for six years. I understand that because of your own limitations, you were unable to parent him properly. And although I will not pretend that you did the best you could, I do believe you did the best you knew how. You could have had him aborted...you could have purposely taken drugs and alcohol in an attempt to "naturally" abort him, he could be much more disabled than he already is.  Thank you for giving my son life. Thank you for giving him a chance to be a part of this world, and eventually a part of my family. I am sorry for you that your baby was taken away. I am sorry for him that he has to sustain that loss for the rest of his life. But, I am so so very happy for me that he is mine.

I often forget t hat Mother's Day is bittersweet for B. This year was a Mother's Day of gain...and of loss. Because of that, I often struggle with hating you. I know he does, too. You used to be "my-birth-mother-who-I-love-more-than-I-love-you". You used to be "mommy". Then you were "my-birth-mother-who-didn't-mean-to-put-me-in-a-cage." Now he calls you "my-birth-mother-I-wish-she-was-dead." I hate that he has to chose. I hate that you caused this. I hate that I cannot protect him from it. I constantly tell myself that you are sick--that you couldn't help it. I even try to tell myself that maybe you are simply a product of your own childhood. Because of that, I refuse right now to let him have a relationship with your parents.

I pray constantly that he can recover from what you did and di not do. I have very high expectations and lofty dreams for him. I believe he will make it. He will shock people. And I believe he will inspire people. Despite where he came from, he WILL make it. If you instilled anything in him, it is how to survive.

Anyway, thank you for my little boy.


Big Mama