The Unexpected

Yesterday I saw the bare ground where my garden was last summer for the first time; today it's covered again by at least four inches of snow, and the snow is still coming down. When I told my soon-to-be daughter, who will be moving here in less than a week, she said she couldn't believe it. Even after her visit during the coldest week of the year here, when temperatures dropped to 20 below (that's without wind chill), she has trouble imagining snow at the end fo March. Living in west central MN teaches us to expect the unexpected.

My future daughter has started acting out in preparation for her move next week. She's doing things she hasn't done for years, and she's totally aware of this and even knows the reason--she is testing me and others to make sure we will still care for her if she messes up. I had not expected the conversations we had this week, had not expected to be dealing with some old behaviors so early in the move, even though plenty of people and books warned me that foster kids tend to regress right after a move, and that it will take time to get them stabilized.

This snow feels in so many ways like a regression, too. Yesterday I stood over that bare ground and smiled, imagining the okra and tomato and pepper and squash and cucumber and herbs and eggplant that would be growing from that ground. I imagined my daughter and I working together on the garden. Two days ago I walked to school without a jacket--admittedly, I got a little chilled, but it was possible, and that was the point.

On Wednesday my friends threw an impromptu shower for me. It was spring break, and I assumed most people would be gone, but there was a good crowd, and everyone was way too generous in putting money into the "bedroom furniture" fund for my daughter. This is especially necessary because, just before her move, I had several unexpected home expenses come up--a broken water softener, a mouse problem that needed to be taken care of asap by a professional, a broken computer, and a broken dishwasher (which will likely stay broken for awhile). It seems that each time something happens that makes the prospect of caring for my daughter more challenging, people step in to help--already, and she's not even here yet.

At the shower, I was overwhelmed with gratitude and felt tears gathering in my eyes. It's not unusual for me to cry, but since the adoption journey began I have cried very little. Partly I think this is because I've been conscious of self-care, and partly because I have been in "do-mode" rather than in "feel-mode," always using what little spare time I have to do something practical related to the adoption--read about trauma or attachment, move furniture around, etc. I felt a literal circle of friends around me and realized how lucky I was to have them. I knew that I was not alone. I also knew that, at times when I felt alone, all I would have to do was to close my eyes and remember that circle of support--and then open my eyes and call one of them!

Today, thinking back on the shower and on my daughter's behavior this week, I remembered how often I, too, have regressed in my own journey for healing, and how many of the friends who surrounded me on Wednesday have weathered with me many of those ups and downs. I know I am prone to depression and self-pity. I know I am prone to being dishonest with myself. I know I have trouble with feeling overwhelmed and using procrastination as a way of continuing that feeling. I know I have trouble with caring for others at the expense of my own self-care. I know I overeat when I feel lonely or tired or overwhelmed. These are problems I've had since early childhood--they are simply a part of make-up in the same way that many of my strengths: an abilty to feel what others are feeling and the desire to reach out the hurting people, a strong sense of justice and a desire to do good in the world--are also a strong part of my make-up.

The fact is, I am always, always going to struggle with weaknesses in my character. When I was younger I think I believed that I would be able to work through and put these aspects of myself to rest as I got older. The truth is, I have grown more able to live with them and to control them as I've grown older. (Though, as a side note, I hate the world "control"--they are not so much aspects of myself that need to be "controlled" as to be understood and reframed in more positive terms--eg, I can use my own depression and self-pity as a way of noticing what is not working in my life, and I can use my overeating to notice when I need to reach out to others or to get some rest). But I've also had many periods of regression, when I haven't been able to "get a grip," when these weaknesses have been out of control and have even caused me to hurt others or myself in one way or another. But I always find my way back to a path in which I am living in self-awareness, self-acceptance, and self-love.

I need to give my daughter the tools to recognize her own weaknesses, whether they were simply a part of her make-up from birth or became a part of her make-up because of her intense suffering. I need to help her realize she can change the way she responds to stress and suffering, either past or current or future. But I also need to help her know that she will struggle for a lifetime, and that she will always have periods of regression and then more progress--and that she can't give up on continuing to grow.

The snow is a reminder of how beautiful regression can be, in some ways. When we regress, we remember what we need to do to care for ourselves (in my case, work from home today--I do, after all, finally have a working computer, and campus is closed today!--and take time to write this blog entry). We remember who we are and how far we've come and that we have what it takes to keep moving forward. We are able, in our regression, to also see our progress. If we can keep from beating ourselves up over taking two steps back, we can see with clarity how to move forward again.

When I Tell You I’m Adopting a 14-Year-Old Foster Child, Here’s What You Should and Shouldn’t Say, For Future Reference

When I Tell You I’m Adopting a 14-Year-Old Foster Child, Here’s What You Should and Shouldn’t Say, For Future Reference:

1. Don’t tell me what a “beautiful” or “kind” or “amazing” thing I’m doing, and don’t call me a saint. To say these things—whether hesitantly or suspiciously or with complete honesty--is to show a deep and profound disrespect for my future daughter, who, after all, is a human being. Like all of us, she will likely bring both grief and joy to everyone she loves.

2. Don’t say, “I hope you know what you’re getting into,” or some derivation thereof (“Do you know what you’re getting into?” “Have you thought this through?” “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” “Are you sure your heart’s not bigger than your head?”) The answer is, no, I have no idea what I’m getting myself into—but neither do you. Tomorrow you could be diagnosed with cancer or shot or hit by a bus or called upon to act in heroic ways you can’t even now imagine. None of us knows what we’re “getting into.” Having said that, I have thought this through—I have, in fact, been on a profound spiritual journey that has shifted, quite unexpectedly, into a journey into a particular kind of parenthood. I have done the research; I have set up a support system; I have ensured in every possible way that I am as ready as I can be. But I also have the humility to realize that nothing I do could ever really prepare me for parenthood, or for parenting this particular child. So, whatever you do, don’t imply that I’m somehow naïve or have not thought this through.

3. Don’t ask me why she ended up in foster care. If there’s a reason you need to know—for instance, if you are going to be a part of her core support system and will be working with her on an ongoing basis—I will tell you. Otherwise, there’s no more reason for you to know about her past than there is for me to know about yours. As a general rule, if we haven’t had a heart-to-heart about the hardest things you’ve faced in your life, then you probably aren’t really close enough to me to ask this question—just as I would never ask you to reveal your own or a loved one’s deepest struggles to me if I didn’t have a reason to need to know them.

4. If I do choose to tell you a little about her past, don’t say, “poor thing” or some similar phrase. She is not a “poor thing.” She is a human being—and an incredibly resilient one at that—probably more resilient than you or I could ever hope to be. You should be honored to know her and willing to learn from her. She has a lot to teach you.

5. Don’t tell me that I “deserve” a younger child or ask whether I had trouble getting pregnant or getting an infant or whether my decision had anything to do with money. Again, to imply that a younger (read: less damaged) child is more desirable is to suggest that my daughter is a problem to be solved rather than a person to be loved.

6. Don’t ask whether I’ll have a chance to change my mind after she moves in—unless you are willing to tell me whether or not you ever considered aborting your children or leaving your spouse or otherwise abandoning someone to whom you were committed.

7. Don’t ask, suspiciously, if she has any “learning problems,” “problems in school,” or some other version of this question. Whatever you mean, it is none of your business, unless you are in some way a part of the team working with her and me to ensure her educational success. If you mean, has my child had the opportunity to learn in the same way a child growing up in a loving, permanent home has—the answer should be obvious to any thinking person. If you mean, is my child “slow” or does she have learning disabilities—this is none of your business. I don’t know these things about your loved ones unless, for some reason, you have chosen to tell me because I am part of your core support system, so what makes you think you have the right to know these things about mine? Also, to express concern about my child’s “problems in school” is to misunderstand the point of education, which is to help each child, each person, to understand their challenges and to advocate for themselves so that their weaknesses never keep them from acting on their strengths. If you are concerned about my child’s education, volunteer at the school, ask whether you can help her with her homework, or take the time to educate yourself about the problems in our education system and seek to change those problems using whatever gifts you have.

8. Don’t ask if my daughter is on any medications, has any “mental problems,” or any diagnoses, or any “behavior problems.” You’d have behavior problems, too, if people you’ve never met thought they had the right to ask adults in your life about whether you have any behavior problems. If you are concerned about my child’s mental health, use your gifts, whatever they may be, to change the system in which she grew up—a system that allows traumatized children to remain with their abusive biological parents for years before removing them, a system that portrays these children as somehow too damaged to be loved and prevents otherwise sensible and thoughtful people like you from even considering adopting them.

9. Don’t tell me I have your support—unless you really mean it. And if you do really mean it, then offer something concrete that you can realistically deliver and that somehow reflects your own strengths and your relationship with me. For instance, if you are my coworker, offer to help with my classes during the transition. If you are my boss, offer to make the process of taking a leave easy. If you like to bowl, offer to take my daughter bowling to give me a break. If you are an artist, offer to give her art lessons; if you’re good at math, offer to help her with her math homework; if you know own a horse, offer to introduce her to your horse. (Of course, you would only be able to offer these things if you’d taken the time to learn she wants to try bowling, loves art, hates math, and loves horses—which would require an entirely different kind of questioning altogether). Or, if you really mean it when you say I have your support but don’t know what to offer, ask me what I need. Or, better yet, wait until my daughter has moved in, and ask her what she needs. Then, be honest about whether you can do what we ask for.

10. Don’t give me parenting advice—unless you have also adopted a traumatized child—and even then, provide parenting advice with caution. The way I will parent my daughter has nothing whatsoever to do with the way you are parenting yours. She is a specific child with specific needs and strengths and challenges, and I have spent the last year learning all I can about how to parent children with these strengths, needs, and challenges through readings, workshops, and discussions with experts. Ultimately, however, parenting is a soul-guided calling, one that requires intuition and unconditional love as much as, if not more than, traditional kinds of preparation. Trust that I know what I’m doing, and intervene only if you feel she or I are truly in harm’s way—and even then, intervene cautiously and lovingly, because you may not be able to understand the whole picture.

11. Don’t ask me whether I’m ready to give up my free time or my writing or my friendships or the possibility of finding a life partner. First of all, I am not giving any of these things up—I am simply shifting my priorities. Parents, in my opinion, should always put their children first. This does not mean they do not care for themselves or pursue other interests or relationships—it simply means they commit to guiding another human being into adulthood and loving that human being unconditionally. Yes, this takes time and sacrifice, and I am smart enough to know this. If you don’t think I am, then you don’t know me very well and probably shouldn’t be asking me such personal questions in the first place.

12. Don't say, when I express these thoughts with you, that maybe I'm overreacting or a little too defensive. Don't suggest that maybe I wouldn't be so defensive if I didn't know that you were partly right. I am not defensive because I know you're right--I'm defensive because I spent a full year praying and meditating on this decision, facing each doubt and fear and concern head on. I don't need to relive it all now just because you don't understand my decision.

If you’re thinking, “Oh, no, I really messed up when she told me about the adoption,” don’t worry, it’s not too late. Here are some “dos” to balance out the don’ts:

1. Ask me why I decided to adopt a teenager—but do so non-judgmentally, and then, take the time to really listen to my answer. You might learn something about me or my future daughter by asking an open-ended, well-meaning question like this one. But don’t ask it if you don’t really want to hear about the profound and unusual spiritual journey that led me to this decision.
2. Ask me about my daughter’s strengths—what she loves, what she’s good at. You’ll learn she’s talented with art, animals and children, loves to swim, loves to be outside in all kinds of weather, wants to learn to sew, and is as deeply committed to social justice, if not more committed, than her mother.
3. If you really want to help, ask me what you can do to help my daughter grow into a person who advocates for herself despite all the challenges she’s faced and will face in life and who is able to create change in the world using her specific gifts. Then, when I answer, be honest about whether my request is actually a possibility for you, and if it’s not, tell me so. Better yet, ask her (instead of me) what you can do for her—then be honest about what you can provide.
4. If you don’t really want to help but want me (or her) to think that you do, keep your mouth shut. My daughter has had plenty of people who have pretended to be committed when they really weren’t, who have committed only part way, or who have done and said all the wrong things in order to make themselves feel better about living relatively ignorantly in a profoundly disturbed and disturbing world in which a child like her could face, before the age of 14, 10 times the trauma most people face in their lifetimes. She has a very strong bullshit detector, and if are lying about what you can do for her, consciously or unconsciously, she’ll realize it quickly. She needs permanent commitments from people—which is not to say that your level of commitment to her can’t change based on what is happening in your life, but only that you have to be honest and open along the way, with yourself, with me, and with her, about what you can really deliver, what kind of commitment you can really make.
5. Regardless of what kind of commitment you can make, love my daughter unconditionally. Like all human beings, she may irritate or anger or frustrate you, but she will also, if you let her, teach you a great deal about kindness and love and hope and resiliency. So give her a chance.

The Week Lawrence King was Shot

When Lawrence King, an out 8^th grader in California, was shot by Brandon McInerney, another boy in his class, my future daughter, who is also in 8^th grade, was visiting me for the first time.

Larry was shot because he told the other boy he had a crush on him. The murder came after several weeks of harassment based on Larry’s sexual orientation.

The week Lawrence King was shot, a group of 8^th grade girls generously agreed to meet my future daughter. They weathered her inability to look them in the eye. They were kind, made jokes, tried to make her feel at ease as best they could. S. is a strange child; she has difficulty making social connections because of the years of trauma in her life. She regularly makes off-the-wall comments. She’s a messy eater, she’s uncoordinated, she’s strange. And yet, at the end of the visit, she said, “I have to move here now. I don’t want to disappoint my new friends.”

The week Lawrence King was shot, my cat Snowbee hissed at S. I had warned her that my cat was not friendly. I had explained that she’d been an abused cat. Still, the first time Snowbee hissed, S. wept—then grew calm, and asked me to tell the story of how I’d come to rescue her. I did. She said to me, “I want you to keep her until she dies. She just needs love.” She wanted to know if I would have gotten her out earlier if I’d realized she was in danger. She wanted to know if I would be willing to take her back if, in the future, she got into trouble with a man and needed to leave quickly, and whether my “yes” to that question would still be valid if, by that time, she had her own kids.

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. told me she didn’t mind that I was a lesbian. “I can be open minded,” she said, “even though nobody else in my life really agrees with gay rights.” We talked about what it is like to be different. We talked about what it is like to be hated or ridiculed just because of who you are. “It’s not fair,” she said.

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. fell in love with a horse named Honey who, like my cat, had also been abused. She groomed Honey gently and lovingly. She learned the voice and arm commands to make Honey walk around her in a circle, and in the center of the horse-prints that circled her, she looked confident, proud. She was not afraid. I will never forget her face as she raised her arm to tell him it was time to stop—determined, open.

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. and I walked across a frozen lake to a small island, which we circled, noting every pawprint in the snow, touching the barks of fallen trees, the branches of trees still standing. S. was afraid at first; she’d never walked on ice; but then she moved by leaps and bounds, talking quietly to herself, saying, “It’s OK. The ice will hold me.”

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. and I went to a church I’d never attended and heard the reading about Jesus walking on water. We smiled widely at each other—the story was about wonder, about miracles, like ours. Later, when we sang “Leaning on Jesus,” S. and I leaned hard into each other and laughed out loud.

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. told me she wanted to live with me, and we began making plans. I felt my heart lift—this is really going to happen!—and then I felt everything else all at once, the fear, the joy, the wonder, the exhaustion, the surge of energy, the grief. I don’t know what I am in for, and neither does she—but we are willing to take the risk to love each other, to live together, to figure things out as we go along.

The week Lawrence King was shot, S. asked if a lesbian couple I am friends with could be her new godparents since “my own godparents gave up on me.” She joked with students she met—students from all walks of life—and she wept about her past, let herself get angry, let herself open to me. She asked if I would love her as she is and I said yes, I would, even when things got hard. She said the same about me. She met a snake named Ramses and got to take home a piece of snakeskin.

S. has probably come close to death more times than I can imagine in her short life. The terror she experienced, the rejection, the humiliation, the pain of being ignored by the people who live with her, by her peers—this, if not the abuse itself, surely could have killed her. She is a survivor; despite everything, she is still loving and hopeful and willing to get her hands dirty, literally and figuratively, to create change. She is still capable of experiencing wonder.

The week Lawrence King was killed, two boys’ lives were ruined. The system that is supposed to provide an education to our youth failed miserably. One boy thought that another boy’s sexual orientation was a good enough reason to kill him. One boy was so threatened by another boy’s crush that he believed violence was the answer. One boy is dead, and another will spend his life in prison.

The week Lawrence King was killed was perhaps the happiest week of my life. I cannot speak for S., but I know she was also happy, truly happy, for much of the week—and when she wasn’t happy per se, she was open to the world, thriving in a community of people who are willing to accept her, and have accepted me, with open arms.

The week Lawrence King was killed, and after, some people said stupid things to me. They asked personal questions no one would ever ask or say to someone welcoming a biological child—does she have “mental problems,” am I sure I know what I’m getting into, am I sure my heart is not bigger than my head. I felt the piercing grief I’ll feel, I’m sure, all of my life on her behalf; I felt the urge to demand that they reframe their questions, rethink their statements. I was insulted and angered, but not shaken. Each time, I tried to answer with integrity, turning the conversation to S’s strengths rather than her challenges, to say, “She’s had a difficult life and struggles with social skills and school, but she’s also an amazing artist, an avid reader, wonderfully at ease around horses.”

In the end, these words did not hurt me as the same words would have hurt S.; I know who I am; I have learned to be confident and secure in my identity; I know I am doing what I am called to do at this point in my life.

I want to believe we don’t live in a world in which being gay is such a threat, such a tragedy, that it merits murder—but clearly, we still live in such a world. I want to believe my daughter will be safe from the comments that sting, the violence that marked her early life—but clearly, I cannot be sure she will be. She is not a lesbian, but she is different in other ways, markedly different—she’s a teenage adoptee, she’s got a single, lesbian mom, she’s disabled and marked by trauma. These differences are apparent, obvious, especially in the small town where I live.

I don’t know who the world lost when Brandon McInerney killed Lawrence King. Perhaps we lost two people with the capacity for compassion—one whose compassion was warped by the messages he’d received about GLBT people, messages we desperately need to change, and one whose compassion was warped by the abuse he faced from his peers. Lawrence King, it turns out, like many queer teenagers who lose their families when they come out, did not have a safe home to which to return—he was living in a youth shelter.

S. could have given in to the negative messages about queers, rejected the opportunity to be adopted by somebody different, but she didn’t. She chose love and open-mindedness over hate and ignorance. I am proud of her for this, and grateful—but I am also afraid. Love and open-mindedness are equated with difference, and difference is hated and feared, even in the world of 8^th graders who are just now figuring out who they are, who they want to be, who are just beginning the dance of self-exploration, of self- and world-discovery.

The week Lawrence King was shot because he dared to be different, S. and I visited the local school. I watched the body that had just two days before moved confidently in sync with a horse’s neck slump toward the linoleum floor, her eyes focused on her tennis shoes. She was in a school, and schools, she has already learned, are not safe places. In the end, especially after seeing some girls her age whom she’d met earlier who took the time to say hello, she was willing to consider the notion that perhaps this school could be better than her old school, where race, class, sexual orientation, and ability govern interactions, where she is constantly teased to the point that she now preemptively strikes, verbally or physically, when another child approaches her. Still, she is hopeful; she believes things can get better.

I hope she is right.

The week Lawrence King was shot, 1,000 young people showed up to a hastily planned march in his honor. Many of the youth spoke eloquently about the need for compassion and understanding and open-mindedness. Since his death, even the relatively non-political people like Ellen Degeneres have spoken out about the need to change the message young people are getting about sexual orientation. Despite some misleading or biased reports, the tragic state of school climate for GLBT teens has made national headlines, the first step to national change.

“We forget the goodness that is in most of our kids,” said the superintendent of King’s school, who marched with the youth. He pointed out that the high number of marchers is a sign of hope for the future.

I hope he is right.