Milky Macaroni

Making mac and cheese for the kids for lunch and made it a little milky... took me back to when we fostered A.
A was 7 when we got him. The first several nights he was with us, I sat at the end of his bed and sang to him and talked to him and prayed as he cried, wailed, for his mother. He was one of our first foster children and the experience of watching a child mourn for his mother was so painful. He didn't understand why his normal wasn't safe.
I remember A always requested his mac n cheese to be milky. At first I didn't understand why. Then he told me that his mom used to make it that way. A lived with us for a year and a half and in that time, he never stopped wanting milky macaroni. The tears stopped. Being without his mom became normal-ish to him.... But he never stopped wanting the milky macaroni.
For those people who always wanted to foster but were afraid of the pain of giving the kids back.... It's real. The pain is so real. I am still mourning that sweet boy. I see him every once in a while. He's happy. His aunt adopted him and he's happy.
I bet he still likes his macaroni milky though.
His pain, his grieving.... It's so much more than me.  I am so grateful for the chance to love on these kids. I am so happy for them when they find a forever home or get to go home. I worry. I grieve. I pray. I love on the next ones. My calling in life is to make macaroni milky. What is yours?

Not Invited

You will never likely see my family on a list of people to invite to a thing.

Jesse (husband) and I were talking recently about how we are lonely, that we don't really have many friends. We know why. It's not because we are not fun people. I, for one, am a very fun people. Jesse is slightly more boring than I but he has a hilarious sense of humor. We are cool people to have around.
We have six kids. SIX. When people invite us to a thing, they have to double their food budget. They have to double the space. They have to put away anything breakable. Or they have to make it so that children cannot come. Have you ever paid a babysitter, or in our case 2-3 babysitters, to take care of six kids for like 5-6 hours? We are not rich, but on date nights we spend nearly $100 on a babysitter alone. Usually a date night will consist of begging a family member, usually my brother, to watch our 5 year old. He is an amazing little boy. He's an overcomer. He survived being addicted at birth to cocaine and heroin. He is a fighter. He is also a fighter. There have been more times than not that the babysitter has had to call us to come home because he has run away, hurt someone, hurt the sitter, etc. If he has one on one attention, he does okay. So my brother usually watches him. Then I have 5 more kiddos. Their ages range from angsty 9 year old to rolypoly 8 month old. There are two 9 year old boys. They do not get a long. There are two girls. They mostly get along. Last, the baby. He is medically fragile. He has to be watched every minute. So we hire two or three babysitters. While at dinner, my husband and I talk about our kids, about how they make life so much more joyful and stressful. We make fun of them. We talk about how proud we are of them. And then we go home to them.
When we are invited somewhere as a family, which is super rare, I STILL try to find someone to watch Jonah. He just does not do well in chaos. When we go somewhere as a family, I threaten, bribe, encourage and beg my children to behave themselves this time. We are a tornado. The 4 year old WILL pick up everything. The not-angsty 9 year old will attach himself to someone for the night and follow them around mercilessly asking question after question. The 7 year old girl will be off on her own doing flips and cartwheels. The angsty 9 year old will find someone who also has their face in a tablet or phone and attach himself to that person, claiming he is making friends. The 8 month old will be attached to me. I will spend the entire time chasing kids, making sure they got enough to eat, making sure they are all still there.... "1,2,3,4,5.... crap where's 6?? Oh I'm holding him..." By the end of the event, I am drained. My husband is drained. My kids are generally hyped up on sugar. I forgot to eat. We go home and peel 6 sleeping children out of our 15 passenger van and vow to never go to a thing again.
Until we get lonely again. Until our friends get brave again. Until we deep sigh and just embrace this season of life.

I'm their real mom.

Foster care is hard. Everyone knows that.

No one really talks about the fact that adoption is hard.

Every time my foster son asks questions about my adopted children's REAL mom or REAL dad, my heart sinks a little.

I AM THEIR REAL MOM.

I held them when they were newborns. I danced with them all night when they went through withdrawals from their "real" mom's drug exposure. I kissed all of their boo boos.

I sang to them, though the songs didn't come as easily with them. The bonding wasn't immediate, like they had grown in my tummy. There was almost always a realization that they weren't mine.

And then they were. They are. They're mine. I adopted them.

I often tell people that I have two home grown, two store bought and two that I'm leasing.

My children. Mine.

My name is on their birth certificates. But not their first birth certificates. And the social security office messed up somewhere so I still have to use their birth names, their REAL names on our taxes and with their insurance.

But they are mine. The boy has my husband's sense of humor, the girl has my sass and fire. The boy has his REAL dad's smile. The girl has her REAL mom's head tilt when when looks at you.

It shouldn't bother me. But it does. It bothers me because the boy tantrums so hard and so violently, but only for women, especially for me.

He screams, "I don't love you!" "I wish you were not my mom!" "You're mean!" "I hate you!"

The girl is starting to mimic. She says all of those except the hate.... She's following his lead.

Would he hate his real mom? I'm his real mom.

Would he wish she wasn't his mom? I'm his mom.

Would he hit his mom? I'm his mom.

I guess he would. He doesn't know any other mom. Why does it hurt? Why is it so hard?

Maybe I'm doing it wrong.

Adoption is a beautiful thing. I'm a saint, they say.

I'm not a saint, I'm just their mom.

Then and Now: #metoo

Then... I sent you racy text messages. I told you what I wanted to do with you. I flirted with you. You flirted back. I felt so sexy when I was with you. I wanted you. You were funny, hilarious even. You captured the attention of everyone in the room. Everyone was your friend. You were a giant (I'm talking 300+ pound) teddy bear. We went to dinner and you brought your little daughter. You were so good with her. I found you very attractive.

Now. Now I struggle to fall asleep. Now I have anxiety. Now I feel untrusting. Now I am claustrophobic. Now I have PTSD. Now... Now my therapist says that I could benefit marijuana to calm myself. 

Then... I was carefree. I was happily friends with benefits with you. Then... I was separated from my husband and you respected that. You hung out with me. You danced with me. I enjoyed going places with you. I would go to the bar, you know, that one that you always went to, just to see if you were there. I'd go there alone, hoping to run in to you. Hoping you'd take me in the back room and do all of the naughty things with me that we had talked about but never done. 

Now. Now my husband, who fought for me and won, wonders why I struggle to enjoy sex. My once carefree open sexuality was cursed, tainted, damaged by those four ugly letters. R. A. P. E. Let's complicate things though, and add the word "date" to the front of the ugly letters. Now. Now I have a lot less friends. Not because I am less social, no, because they chose you. They chose to believe you. I lay awake at night now. I can't sleep. I desperately seek control. I NEED order. But they chose to believe you. 

Then... I was your designated driver. You were playing poker at that bar. You and your friend. You asked me if I'd give you guys a ride home. You kissed me. I saw the twinkle in your eyes that gave me hope for a great fuck. We pulled up at your house and went in to your bedroom. You asked me if I wanted to watch a movie. Sure, "netflix and chill." I'm down. Your friend came in. *eye roll* You locked the door. 

Now. Sex has rules. It has to. I cannot risk what happened "then" to happen "now." Now, I am picky about who I allow in my life. Now, my husband wonders why I am distant. Now I wonder if I am worthy of great sex when sex itself is terrifying to me. My husband wonders why I don't try new things. He doesn't understand my bubble. The tiny bubble of what can happen to my body when I am naked. 

Then... I told you I was going home. You said, "Relax, be nice." I kissed you. I was so scared to hurt your feelings. I wanted to be nice. You were drunk, you and your friend. You told me to lay down, I didn't want to. You threw me down. I froze. You grabbed my face with your giant bear paws and squeezed my jaw like a lemon. You said, "Be nice to my friend." When I said no, when I tried to scream, when I bit down on your dick when you shoved it in my mouth.... You punched me. In the face. Held me down by my neck. You told me, "Be nice. Stop being such a bitch." You told me to shut the fuck up. I was screaming. Your roommates didn't care. Your friend tore my lady parts with his fingers, teeth and tongue. 

Now. No choking. No spanking unless I ask for it. No punishments. No anal. No means no. No inflicting pain. 

Then... I was wearing a sun dress. It was black with roses and skulls. When you were done, you got up and got dressed and left the room, no words. I just got up and got dressed and walked out. The next day, my husband came over to see the kids and I was such a bitch to him. I know this because he told me. "Why are you being such a bitch?!" "I. WAS. RAPED." flooded out of my mouth. He asked where you lived. I didn't tell him. I protected you. I shouldn't have led you on. I shouldn't have worn that dress. I shouldn't have told you that I am adventurous. I should have known better than to be the designated driver for two drunk men. 

Now. I wish I had given him your address. Now I wish you weren't free to rape again. Now I panic when I think I see your face in public. I'm afraid that you will walk up to me. I am afraid that other girls feel the same way that I do when I see your face, hear your name. I carry a gun now. Why? Who knows. It wouldn't have helped me that night. I trusted you. Now. I don't trust many. 

Then... your roommate sent me a text, "I heard you had a great time last night." 
"What? No. Were you there in the house?" 
"Yeah I heard you." 
"You heard me screaming and didn't come help me?" 
"You sounded like you were having fun." 
"I never screamed when I fucked you." 
"Oh. Wait. What happened?" 
"blah blah blah" 
"Oh shit. BRB. (2 minutes later) He said you wanted it."  
*sends pictures of bite marks, bruises, swollen face, black eye* 
"Looks like rough sex to me." 
*less than a minute later you texted me.* "Lose my number." 
Why did this sting? How did this become my fault? Was I actually raped? Did I actually want it? Did my "no" mean "yes?" I am confused.

Now. No longer confused. You raped me. You are a rapist. I am a survivor. You do not get to win. Just because you walk free doesn't mean that you are innocent; you are far from it. You are the devil. Karma is a bitch. I walk in confidence knowing that I am an AMAZING person. I walk in confidence knowing that I have a few amazing friends who will stand next to me in the fire. I walk in confidence, in HIGH HEELS, because I am a strong, amazing woman who will NEVER cower to you. I may be afraid you will walk up to me, and I will tremble, but I will not fall. I hope you see me on the street someday so I can publicly speak your name and add RAPIST to it. That's what you are. And I am Katie: Survivor.

Dear Baby D

Dear Baby D...

 

When they called me about you, I was teaching a class full of children. I saw our foster care coordinator’s name (Sherry) pop up on my phone. I’m not allowed to answer my phone at work. I did that day though. I always will when she calls. 

She said, “Katie, I have a 3 month old baby boy.” I said, “When do I pick him up?” She said, “Katie, wait. You need to know some things first.” Deep sigh. “He is terminally ill. He is one of many siblings, the past two of which have died from this genetic disease. He has Neurofibromatosis. We aren’t sure of his prognosis. He has never been to a doctor. He might die in your care. We think he is deaf also. Now, will you take him?” 

I told her I would have to call my husband. I told him about you. We knew we had to consider what losing you would do to us, to our other children. I went in to my boss’s office. I told her about you. I asked her advice- she gave none. I walked back to my classroom and called Sherry. “I’ll take him. Of course I will take him. I love him already. He deserves a family.” 

The first time I laid eyes on you, I was overwhelmed. With love, with emotion, with fear. Would I be able to give you what you need? I will do my best, because darling, you deserve my best. I loved you then. 

Over the first several weeks with you, you didn’t smile, you barely interacted, you struggled to breathe. When you were hospitalized for pneumonia, a double ear infection and the flu at 4 months old, I knew that you were my child. That may sound odd. Every child I foster has my heart, but not every child is mine. I stayed awake for 39 hours that first two days. My child was sick and you needed me. I held you. I sang to you, and it didn’t matter that I sang poorly. You watched my lips move, you smiled at me. You stole my heart. Forever.

You will be 8 months old in a few days. In the upcoming month, we will learn so much more about your prognosis. Neurology is sending you for an MRI to check for brain tumors. The ENT is sending you for a Sedated Auditory Brainstem Response to figure out the extent of your hearing loss. The Physical Therapist expects you to start rolling over and/or sitting up finally. Orthotics will be fitting you with a cute little helmet with monkeys on it to help guide your head shape as it grows. The Pulmonologist will be impressed by how well you are breathing these days. The Opthamologist will be checking you for ocular tumors. We are about to find out so much about your Anatomy and Physiology, a class that I took four times in college because science is hard. 

All of those diagnoses and doctors do NOT define you, though, my child. 
You are defined by your contagious smile. 
You are defined by the dozens of delicious, pudgy, caramel colored rolls on your arms, legs and tummy. 
You are defined by the accomplishments you have made. 
You smile. 
You laugh. 
You play. 
You reach for toys. 
You cry for me, your mama.
You reach for me. 
I will always reach for you baby boy. 
I will fight for you. 
I will advocate for you. 
And if that day comes where my heart is broken from having to give you back or give you to God, I will never ever stop loving you. 
I will always be your mama and you will always be my baby boy.

I am Katie. Watch Me Write.

Watch me write. Please read in same tone as you would, “Hear me roar,” it sounds less bossy.  

I am going to blog. I think. I am really really bad at following through with things, except maybe keeping children alive and showering at least once a week, you know, because mom life. 

It’s my intention to write about foster care, trauma, my life, weight loss, making a difference and anything else that comes to my mind. Be prepared for hard topics. Be prepared to roll your eyes at my ridiculousness. Be prepared to be triggered if you have had trauma. I’ve had trauma. So much trauma. 

And I’m going to talk about it. 

This blog will be about empowering and lifting up and making a difference.