Changes Come

lyrics by Over the Rhine...
who regularly make me weep and laugh and keep taking the next step
and then weep some more
CHANGES COME, by Over the Rhine

"Changes come
Turn my world around

I have my father's hand
I have my mother's tongue
I look for redemption in everyone

I wanna wear your ring
I have a song to sing
It ain't over babe
In fact it's just begun

Changes come
Turn my world around
Changes come
Bring the whole thing down

I wanna have our baby
Somedays I think that maybe
This ol' world's too fucked up
For any firstborn son

There is all this untouched beauty
The light the dark both running through me
Is there still redemption for anyone

Jesus come
Turn the world around
Lay my burden down
Turn this world around
Bring the whole thing down
Bring it down"

My Little Pollywog

So I lost it today. And then found something too. Doesn't it always go like that.
Tieran and I had a tender morning when he was sick this week, and I was stupid enough to remind him that part of the way good moms take care of their little guys is to keep them bundled up and warm. So he went the rest of the week stripping and taking off his coat and socks and shoes and finding any puddles within a mile radius. Oh and of course refusing to sleep after he found out that was a way to get better too. Funny, I knew he was resisting "getting better" in his heart, but I was shocked to find him working so hard to not get better physically. It sums a lot up really. That he would rather be snotty, coughing, tired, weak and cold, than to let his mommy make him better. It is his mantra.
So anyway, long story not-so-short.. I totally lost it today. That great attitude I've been working on went out the window. After cleaning the umpteenth set of urine-saturated clothing, being screamed at, lied to, head-butted and bit, it became very clear to him that I was invested and in fact deeply emotional about the fact that he needs to get better(in more ways than one!) And the funniest thing, is that I guess he's always known.
Because tonight as I tried to gain my composure, and we had our quiet time, I read to him about pollywogs and tadpoles. About how they change so drastically. They lose their tales, their gills, they grow feet and they begin to breathe air. He was mostly focusing on the ceiling while I read, but then I asked him the study question from the book... thinking it was rather lofty and vague, but figuring I'd give it a chance. The question said, "Why do you think God wants to keep growing and changing things?" And Tieran thought for a while, sincerely interested. He looked at me, exhausted from a long horrible day, and said, "cause they just can't stay the same" I smiled. I looked at him, knowing he didn't really mean "they." I pried, "Why not?" And he said, "Cause god did not make me to stay like this."

Little bit of love

I am dragging myself off to bed, but know that if I don't write it now, it will mutate and then fade and be gone forever... So write I must.
Tieran's morning was slow and stumbly. (Not a word, I know, but there isn't a better one I can think of right now) He was a bit under the weather, which sadly to say, is kind of nice for us. It generally means he'll slow down a bit, not rage as hard, and often will accept affection or closeness he is normally too powered-up to receive. So we were discussing love. Just in general I guess. We were looking at a coloring book about how God shows us care. The stars, the leaves, our friends and loved ones... This is how God shows us love. Then I asked him how we show him love. He listed a kazillion ways that we show him we care. "Mom snuggles me even when I'm mean" I smiled, "uh huh," and so on. Then I asked him, "Well Tieran, how do you show people love?" He was genuinely stumped. He spent the next five or ten minutes saying things like "By being mean. By pinching. By yelling" I was confused and asked over and over in different ways, from different angles, and he went on and on with things that just don't usually (to the best of my knowledge anyway) summarize LOVE. Finally, he said to me, "I don't think I do show love to people." I pushed: "REALLY?!? Not anyone?" "I don't think I do." "Why not Tieran?" "I don't think I love people." "That's so sad Tieran, not anyone? How come?" "It's too hard." And there you have it. The most honest thing the little guy has spat out in months. It is just too hard. I hugged him tighter, and by the end of his pretty quiet (thank you LORD!) day, he said to me tonight, that he does say "Thank you to God," and that "kinda is like showing love, right?" I say yes indeed. He later says, "Mom, I say thank you to you sometimes. That's kind of a little love right?" Yes Tieran. That is a little love. And the kiss he planted on my left cheek after kissing the right one and saying, "the other one might get jealous...." Is a little love. But for this little man, who said months ago in counseling, "I'm kinda scared, maybe kind of a little scared of having a little bit of love...." It is Enormous.

Hollow

I'm no photographer, and it's a shame, because I'd give just about anything for some really good pictures(the kind that do justice,) of the amazing ironies I saw in these Redwoods. This picture is taken standing inside what should be the trunk of a redwood probably near 200 feet tall. It was burned through in a fire. Think it died? Nope. It's funny, cause I always refer to the insides of us staying the course, the core of us as the part that makes it when our physical selves are falling apart. But I looked at these trees, these enormous peaceful giants who had completely lost the insides of their foundations, and I was swept away with the symbolism. I look at Tieran, and I think... You know, it's just his shell we're seeing. He has been emptied out so much. His trunk has had every bit of life burned out by fear and hurt. But under the ground of this wild freak of nature (the tree that is, not my son) are these gigantic strong roots, and they are sending water past the first 50-60 feet of rotten wood, right on up to the new shoots and branches (new being still much older than I am!). It is so strong, and you would never guess it because you can waltz right in and have a picnic in the hollowed out place of its core. I will try to hold on to this picture. It isn't enough to just say troubled kids have tough exteriors for survivor's sake. They don't just have challenging behaviors covering a soft strong inside. They have been hollowed. Burnt. Left to nature's cruelties. But there are roots there somewhere. And there are those of willing to send the water the long way 'round... Hoping that it might reach some new shoots.

In case

When you wake up one morning and lie there wondering who you are, it helps to have people who have known you forever. When you go through the day wondering when you stopped laughing, or if you ever laughed much, it is especially helpful. When it dawns on you that you are not doing any of the things you thought you would, and that who you essentially are is drastically different than how you imagined, you cry. You weep buckets. I don't tickle and wrestle and sing much with this little man. He cannot handle it. The love that I have to give seems too much for him, and not being able to give it is excruciating. So much so that I have, on occasion, forgotten who I am. I wrote something a while back about a nickname that reminded me.

In Case

My father called me Sparky
There was something in my eyes
Oh how I wish I'd held it tighter

And somehow recognized

How easily the world would come
Along to stomp it out
Instead of fanning precious flames
I'd smother them with doubt

My father called me Sparky
And I wonder if he knew
That someday I'd remember it
While searching for a clue

Of Who I Am and where I've gone
And how to get Me back
I think perhaps it was a gift

In case I got off track

The bird

So I'm going through my writing, and came across this blurb I knew I had to throw on paper a few months back. This blog is my new attempt to chronicle our journey with Tieran, and though we are definitely past this stage now, I figure I should include it for perspective sake.... It actually helps for me to see that it wasn't that long ago he was calling me "Sarah" rather than mom. Just when I think we've gotten nowhere, I see that I used to hear him threatening to scalp people, and I realize we just need to measure progress differently than most!

"His tongue grasps the corner of his mouth as if he was concentrating on some minute detail in a drawing. His eyes are steely and wise, making him seem years older than barely four. It is taking him a great deal of effort, but he's plenty persistent. Every time he puts the pinky finger down, it goes shooting up again. I am standing there, astonished, as he finally holds down the last finger. Or at least the last he was attempting to fold over. There is one left upright. It is his short pudgy middle finger. Because he has to hold all the others down with his right hand, I find both his arms reaching toward me, making certain I see the assault with absolute clarity. He has been screaming these words silently and covertly for so long, I am almost grateful for the tangible display.

Within hours of flipping me off, more honesty comes seeping and sometimes springing out of him. "I don't like you...You do a bad mom-job and you're a really bad mom...I don't need you!" Not sure if I prefer the words or being flipped off better, I just know that each produces their own kind of pain. And I think of our Creator. Of how many times I concentrate on the task before me, content to be blissfully ignorant to all around me, and find myself holding up that finger. And as if it's not enough to hold it up, I stretch it out so it is placed squarely in God's face. And I proceed to say that SOMEBODY does not do a good enough job. That I could do much better if only He would let me. That if I were in charge, people wouldn't lose babies or endure abuse or have a mother's heart with no chance to mother. And rather I'm screaming the words or just flipping the finger, the message is the same. "I don't need you."

So here is the experiment I;m in the middle of in my home. My four year old foster son who we are in the process of adopting has said he wants no mom. Doesn't like 'em, need 'em, or want 'em. None of them thank you very much. And after nearly a year of fighting with him over every little thing and trying to build attachment with someone who is scared to death of trusting, I just finally said "ok." "Okay, Tieran. If I'm so bad at being a mom, than I'll stop doing the Mom-job for a while. You go ahead and do the mom-jobs for yourself. I'll keep you safe, and I'll drive you to preschool, but you're in charge of the rest." Of course I said these things thinking that within a matter of hours he would realize how much I do for him, and how well, and come crying with a new perspective of respect and understanding.

It's funny, it's only been a few days, but that is most definitely not happening. Instead he is enjoying the freedom from nagging, knowing that I will keep him safe but that he has just been handed a free ticket for chaos. He began coloring on the walls, just to see if I would step in and be the mom. He flashes evil glares and pushes just to the point where I feel I might explode and then goes gaily about his way of taking care of himself. His teeth may go brushed or unbrushed depending on his mood. He's taken one bath (though he couldn't keep the water in the tub), and the clothing choices have been surprisingly appropriate. He knows that he can pretty much manage the mundane tasks that have caused several small world wars in the past, but he also knows that not being parented leaves you pretty lonely. So he pretends to love the loneliness and sings songs about not needing anybody "not nobody"

I felt bad about the assortment of food that he could reach and open or make easily enough, so I casually left out a granola bar on the counter to supplement his breakfasts of bananas and yogurt or bread. The next morning, he saw it, was delighted, and started devouring it. We are mostly not talking during this little experiment, and so when he started to ask me a question I almost stopped him. But I couldn't. He had this super sweet face and his enormous blue eyes were almost kind; which I hadn't seen for a while, when he asked, "Sarah, did you put this there for me?" All I said was, "Yes, Tieran," but my heart was warming up to a wee little expectation of a minor breakthrough, a bit of thankfulness from him, a slight supermom moment. The delusion was quickly shattered when his eyes went hard again and he said, "Oh----pause--- I should say thank you, but-- I won't!"

And it dawns on me. There is Someone I often say those exact words to. I don't have the heart to admit it as honestly as my kiddo, but I often leave out those two monumental words. I say just that; "I should-- but I won't!" through my inaction every day. I have been hurt just enough to have a kind of attachment disorder very similar to the one my son suffers. Of course somewhere inside is a woman who craves to be known and understood and loved unconditionally, but she does not much like the idea of trusting in order to feel those things. It becomes a toss up. And most of the time, avoiding the fear of trusting seems like the smarter choice. She is terrified of being grateful for the small kindnesses that are casually left out on the counter, because that would be like admitting that she needs help and is out of control.

Only as I sat to write the simple story of my unbelievably audacious little one flipping me off did it occur to me how very much we have in common. I have a better social filter. I don't go screaming at folks in the grocery store that I would like to shoot or scalp them. I never bite the earthly hands that feed me. But I am sure that if I were to really stop and look, to watch some hidden camera footage of the quieter, more common days, I might see an image of a little girl fiercely hidden in a woman's body, holding up her pudgy middle finger to her Father and thinking she was pretty damn smart. And I'm even more certain that He will not respond as irresponsibly as I have to my own, for He will never hand over the job to someone who is incapable of doing it right. "

Takin it in

Last night Jarod pointed out the ironic symbolism in Tieran's decisions regarding what to "take in" literally and figuratively.
Recently, while in trouble for something, he was "helping" me sweep the kitchen. He does this with a really big paint brush (cause the broom is too dangerous!) So anyway, he's sweeping up the pile I already swept, into the dustpan. I am on the other side of the kitchen wall, and as I turn the corner, I hear him scramble, drop everything... and as I get a visual, he is standing with an odd look on face. I ask him what in the world he is doing, and he does nothing. I ask again, and he swallows. Then it goes something like this..."What are you eating?" "nothing" "Tieran, I know you just swallowed something, what was it?" He sticks his tongue out to prove there is nothing in his mouth, and I catch a sight of some dust bunnies. I ask him again what he has just swallowed and he finally responds, "cheese and coconuts" I have never had coconut anything in my house. I don't recall putting a slice of cheese out for him.. And it dawns on me. The "pile" is neither in the dustpan nor on the floor. My little darling has just swallowed a pile of nasty-who-knows-what from the kitchen floor. WOW.
Not even two days later as he's brushing his teeth and I mention that he did a great job of minding for the first time that day (I said, 'say eeee' and he did it without realizing that doing so would be accidentally COMPLYING!!!) and he spit that compliment right on out. Literally, figuratively, and all over my bathroom. He didn't miss a beat. "great job Tieran...." leads directly to BLAAAAH! Toothpaste, spit and water all over.
How do we deposit the necessary love/grace/knowledge/sustenance into a little man who will eat dirt and spit out a compliment? oh the intriguing questions of raising a traumatized kiddo!

Crazy

When you have an attachment-disordered 4 year old, you cannot possibly read enough books. You keep an ear to the door of all conferences, and new "best practices" of psychology. Our munchkin's therapist sent me a new one, and I am now devouring it. It's called The Jonathon Letters. Emails and letters between a woman who took in an attachment-disordered kiddo and a specialized clinician across many miles. (Michael Trout, who wrote and directed the amazing look at how traumatized children view moving from home to home- check out "Multiple Transitions") Anyway.. I was getting really discouraged because I am supposed to read these sorts of things and feel better that we are not alone. That there are others who are raising munchkins that resist love, resist parenting, resist life. But I was not soothed because all I could see was how much faster they seemed to heal. This woman read all the same books, tried all the same therapies, and had a kid about the same age with similar issues. So why were they writing a book LOOKING BACK at this time - brief and rocky- that seemed to drastically change from week to week with sudden bursts of "ahas!" and "he gets it!"... when we are sitting squarely in the muck with itty bitty little progressions cast about unbearable regressions? Sadly, this is my take lately... and for one who is generally referred to as having a "pollyana" complex; the martyrdom is rather uncharacteristic.

Fortunately, after noticing that everybody else does this better and faster (or at least according to my worn-out mind and body at this very moment) I then found some hope that made everything clear. (not in an AHA! kinda way... I have stopped believing in those!)
What I realized is that I may "woe is me" and martyr myself all night, and forget it all tomorrow if Tieran decides to not shit anywhere but the toilet... or I may look at this mess as unbearable and not worth it, only to wake up one morning with a fresh understanding of patience (or even better... HUMOR!) The reason I have to be comforted by these letters does not lie in the outcome for this family, or the progressions' rapid-fire successions in their journey. I get to be comforted because when the woman asked the therapist if he thought they were crazy for proceeding with adoption based on the hope of change, this clinician said quite matter-of-factly, "YES, OF COURSE YOU ARE CRAZY"

I FIRMLY believe that what he said next summarizes those of us taking in traumatized children and sticking it out through the days that do not entail parks and ice cream, tickles and songs. Through the nights with no sleep or tending to night-terrors. Through missed work days and family events. Broken hearts and wounded bodies. Rather fast or slow, convinced or unsure, the journey of these families can be summarized by this one truth. WE ARE CRAZY! He goes on to say this...

"Who else, except a crazy person, would invite the hurricane into the living room, believing--on faith, mostly-- that there is something amazing at the center of a hurricane, that the calm after the hurricane is especially sweet and the air sometimes smeels good, and that it's usually true that there will not be another hurricane fast on the heels of the one you just invited in? WHO DOES THIS?!?! Who is so nutty (or arrogant, or deranged, or faithful, or flush with hope) to imagine that the hurricane can be tamed before it destroys the house, and that some part of the hurricane will be left after that taming, so that it is worth the wind and the threat? You peeked, of course. You have a hunch about what may lie inside there, at the center. And something about your makeup, your faith, your own lived experience suggests that you not only can, but should, hang on, reach deeper, reach out, and do the ridiculous/impossible/disupritve/humane thing."

Yup. that just about sums it up. Funny, maybe this is why I can't stop humming Gnarls Barkley's lyrics "who do you think you are, ha ha ha, bless your soul You really think you're in control well, I think you're Crazy Just like me..."

This Walking

This walking on
and on, this
going and coming--
this morning

shines such lovely
light on
all of us
we're home.

~Robert Creeley