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Ahhhhhhh….the wonderment that comes from living with a young
toddler. It truly is a magical era. In toddlerhood, the unique personalities we
have seen budding in our young infants begin to really blossom. The toddler is
assertive, he proclaims his likes and dislikes, he investigates the most
mundane objects as if they are cutting edge creations straight out of a science
fiction fantasy.
Take for instance, the flour sifter. You know, the object in
which you pour flour, turn the crank, and out it comes through the bottom. No
matter how many times I pull the flour sifter out of the baking cabinet, Elijah
approaches it with all the earnestness and focus that NASA gives to creating
the new Mars Exploration Rover. He must examine it from each and every angle,
shake it, pound it, lean forward until his half is face is fully inside the
sifter. The crank is always a surprise discovery, to which I am continually
greeted with a shocked look as if to say “Mom! You won’t believe this! When you
turn that knob…the thing-a-ma-bob on in
the inside moves!!!! Woah!!!!”
Toddlerhood is the first age in which toddlers actively
assume that his parents are in fact, God. He fully believes that we are
omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and omnibenevolent. It is an assumption
that he never questions. Moms are supposed to know and anticipate each need: he
believes we already know that he is hungry as soon as the thought occurs to
him. Elijah fully expects that I can read his mind and of course I know that when he points to the top of the refrigerator
that he thinking about Cheerios and not Honey Nut Chex. And woe-to-me if I
bring down the Chex and not the Cheerios; those screams of frustration let me
know that he has no patience for my games!
But, the greatest indicator in his belief that I am God,
comes in the form of an oven mitt. A green and white checkered, tattered, dirty
ol’ oven-mitt. This oven mitt, to be precise.
I do not know what it is about this oven mitt that inspires
my son’s obsession. Of all the oven mitts we have in this house, this is the
only one he continually seeks out. Where ever I may leave it, he manages to
discover the hiding spot, or I forget and pull it out for cooking and suddenly
he is in a frenzy, “The mitt! THE MITT, IT’S HERE!”
You see, this is the mitt I resurrect daily. Elijah fully
believes in my mothering power to bring his beloved oven mitt to life. He is
insistent upon it; the oven mitt must talk, and move, and sing, and it is only
I who can make it do these things.
When the oven mitt is talking, he does not look at me, he
looks at the glove on my hand, despite what seems to be an obvious similiarity
in our voices (to this plain ol’ mom anyway). Each command the oven mitt gives
is immediately obeyed, as if he entranced under some spell I have cast by
putting that beat up glove on my arm.
Fascinated, yet fearful. The oven mitt must not get with a
ten foot radius, or the scream of terror ensues along with a toddler’s ultimate
nightmare: the desire to seek out mom for comfort, and yet realizing she is holding
the frightening item in question. And then, instant relief as mom, with just a
touch of her fingers, the oven mitt once more lays dead and lifeless on the
counter.
Yes, he fully believes I have the power to give and take
away life. With a touch of my hand I can fix anything he hands me. With the
touch of my lips, I can kiss away the gravest wound. With the sound of my
voice, I can make anything happen. He trusts me implicitly as the all-powerful
benevolent force in his life. Elijah toddles out to explore the great unknowns
of this world because he believes I am there to protect him from anything and
everything bad and scary. He throws himself with delight off the top of the
stairway so long as I stand at the bottom with my arms outstretched. He runs to
me at first sight of the vacuum cleaner and doesn’t turn around to look at it
until he is safely perched in my arms. He shines with delight when I replace
the batteries on his keyboard and it makes music again.
It is a humbling and sober moment when you realize that your
children first come to understand our heavenly Father through….us. As if just
trying to raise our children and learn from our millions of parenting mistakes
isn’t daunting enough, suddenly the day comes when you grasp that how you
interact with your children on a daily basis is shaping how they will come to
understand God and Christ.
It makes how we choose to interact with our children on an
ordinary, every day basis incredibly meaningful. It makes our parenting
choices--- grace or legalism, gentleness or harshness, patience or a
quick-temper, true forgiveness or punishment--- all that more poignant and
powerful.
One day, Elijah will discover the oven mitt is just an oven
mitt. And one day he will learn that I am just a frail imperfect human being,
who can’t bring things back to life, or fix everything that’s broken. But, it
is my desire and daily prayer, that as he outgrows his fantasies of his
mother’s powers, he comes to transfer them to the One who really does fulfill them.
In the meantime, I lean on God, thank Him for being much greater than I could
ever possibly hope to be, and plunge into the daunting and wonderful world of
mothering a toddler.
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| Our housing development publishes a monthly magazine. I was persuing the classifieds section and came across this advertisement:
A child needs you!Think foster care:
Receive up to 1400 dollars a month in stipends, free medical insurance
for child, 24 hour support. Contact us as XXXXX.
Sorry, but stuff like this irks me. I hate seeing people try to
get adults interested in foster care by enticing them with money. Money
is about the absolute worst reason to go into fostering children.
That's not to say that money shouldn't be provided to foster
parents....many adults couldn't afford to foster a child without the
additional income. But, when an adult is attracted to being a foster
parent as a way to earn to money, it's the wrong motivation and I've
seen it lead to some heartbreaking results for both children and their
foster families.
It irks me that this company is deliberately omitting important
information and misleading on other. I know for a fact that the reason
stipends are so high is because the children being fostered out of this
organization are a special risk group. And the
average stipend is less than half then their 1400 dollar claim. These
are kids who need intensive care, and therapy, and commonly engage in
challenging behaviors. The more intensive the needs, the more the
stipend is supposed to be to meet those needs. When I worked for DYS,
all of our sex offenders were required to be placed in specialized
foster care, as were all of our fire setters, mutilators, and those who
were extremely physically abusive.
All children need loving homes, but high-risk children especially need
homes where adults find a special calling nurturing these children.
They are adults who see the potential in each little one placed in
their home, and have the personality and stamina and patience to cope
with difficult behaviors.
Unfortunately, I have had far too much experience with "foster care
mills" than I ever care to recount, of both the traditional and
specialized variety. I have had foster parents of my clients openly
admit that they try and take in as many foster children as possible in
order to pay the rent with their stipends. And then these children are
left with only minimal care and supervision. These children are
not a ministry or a mission, they are a paycheck. 
I can remember the faces of a dozen children who were raped or raped
other children in foster care homes where they were regularly left
unsupervised with 6 other foster children for 10 hours in a day while
their foster parents sat in the other room and said they weren't to be
bothered. Sometimes I will be sitting at the playground, or reading a
story and I will remember one of these kids, and my heart will break
all over again. It is so sad to remember children, who in their most
vulnerable moments, when they most needed a caring adult, ended up
being used and neglected. I used to believe
that it would be impossible for their to be "bad" foster parents or
"bad" foster care agencies. I used to believe that there was too much
oversight and too much regulation for that to ever happen. Until I saw
it with my own eyes, sitting with children victimized by the very
system that was supposed to be designed to protect them. It left a
bruise on my soul, and years later it still hurts.
I understand why it happens. There are too many children and not enough
people who volunteer to foster. Caseworkers are overwhelmed and are
held accountable for more than is reasonable to expect them to control.
And so, some just take what they can get and don't ask too many
questions. But it's still not right. And I always have a bad reaction
to foster agencies who try to sound like used car salesman to grab a
buyer. People who use money as a motivator for fostering shouldn't be
allowed to place children.
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| Thomas and I live in a very, very wealthy county. We are surrounded by
a lifestyle and a culture that neither one of really belongs to, or
grew up in, or ever lived in. But, we are living in it now.
This is a county where 50% of all households earn more than 167,000
dollars. In our particular development, which is one of the mor
"desireable" locations, townhouses sell for 500,000 to 700,000 dollars,
single family homes for 1.2 million dollars. The two closest car
dealerships to our house are Jaguar and Hummer. Five miles up the
road, where homes have more land and farms, the average selling price
for a single family home is 2.5 million dollars. In last weeks paper,
of the twelve homes listed, 3 for priced at over 10 million dollars.
In short, we are surrounded by things we cannot possibly afford, and
surrounded by people who not only consume these things, but can't
imagine daily life without them.
We are by *no* means poor. But, living in an area where we are the
poorest residents, monetarily speaking, has opened my eyes to a lot of
things. It is a strange sensation to realize that there is not one,
solitary, single family home in the entire county
that we could afford to buy. It is funny to take a Sunday drive and
visit open houses and know that you are getting a peak into a home in
an entirely different realm than our financial reality.
Elijah and I are part of a neighborhood playgroup that meets in
different homes once a week. We are the only renters, and our home is
1/2 the size of any one else's. We moved from a 900 square foot
apartment to a 2,000 square foot home and bought no additional
furniture. Our family room is completely empty, our kitchen table is
broken, our dining room is a makeshift playroom instead. And then I
walk into these 5,000 square foot homes that all look like something
out of HGTV. I listen quietly to conversations about 10,000 dollars
paid for new window treatments, or 20,000 dollars for new hardwood
floors. Elijah plays with trainsets that "only" cost 500 dollars, in
specially designed "toddler playrooms" complete with playscapes built
into the floor.
I have done a lot of introspection and praying about covetousness since
becoming a part of this community. Living here has confirmed to me that
material possessions are not a high priority in my life. I do not walk
into these homes and covet their things. I truly am genuinely grateful
for my home, I am satisfied with my belongings, no matter how
threadbare. While there are certainly things I *wish* for and I save
for (a new computer, a new kitchen table), I am contented with what I
have. I can live here and not pine for the things everyone else can
afford that I cannot. And, I see how much of a stumbling block money is
for so many people and so many families, and I am grateful that it is a
temptation I am spared.
But, just when I start to throw stones, I realize I am sitting in my own glass house..
I do not covet money, but I do covet time. I covet more of my husband's
time. I am jealous of those whose husbands never have to travel. I know
several people whose spouses work from home, and one whose spouse works
from home and only needs to work 2 days a week, and I covet that. I
desperately wish that was our situation. And everytime my husband is
deployed, or sent TDY on an anniversary or birthday, I harbor a small
resentment in my heart because the military's needs come first. I covet
the FMLA that grants employees three months leave for the adoption or
birth of a child. I could care less that it is unpaid, money we could
do without. But the dissapointment of imagining three months of Thomas
home full-time, and realizing he is not eligible, creates a jealousy. I
am jealous of those who get that opportunity. And it becomes a
temptation and a sinful desire. When he's been gone for two weeks and
comes home, I don't want him up in our bedroom praying to God. I don't
want His time to come before *my* time. I want to scoff up every second
that Thomas is not away or working and claim it as my own, and our
family's. God and everyone else can get out of the way. And this makes
me no better than someone else whose idol is money.
I've really been praying a lot over this place of selfishness in my
heart. It humbles to realize how far I have come in my Christian
journey, and yet how far I still have to go. I am so grateful for God's
continuing patience, because sometimes I feel like it's going to take
me forever to have the maturity of faith He is worthy of. | | |
| So, we had Elijah's well-baby appointment today. He hadn't been to one
in ages, and I had been deliberately dragging my feet on scheduling
one. We don't vaccinate, and to be perfectly honest, I was so
emotionally burnt-out from all our past medical traumas, that I just
didn't want to deal with going to another doctor's appointment.
But, reason finally prevailed. He hadn't had a weight or height check
in three months, and that's a big deal for a child who was getting
weighed weekly for over four months. I have been keeping informal track
of his progress at home with our scale and a tape measure, and I knew
that he wasn't gaining all that well, but he's doing a 10000% better
than he was. I was so afraid to go, have his measurements taking and be
thrown back to the nightmare of "he's not growing well enough...we've
tried all we can try, we need to reconsider gastric tube feeding"
Especially given all the progress he has made with eating. So, I put it
off and put it off. But, I couldn't do that forever, and today was the
day.
Some things went a lot better than I was expecting. Though he only
weighed in at 20 pounds and 4 ounces and 29 inches tall, he had
*almost* stayed on a growth curve, so they were relatively satisfied
and more than willing to defer the endocrinologist instead of push the
immediate panic button. His head circumference was in the 50%
percentile, and his weight for height ratio once again was in the 25%
percentile. Overall, medically healthy!
Amazingly, the part that bothered me, which I really didn't expect to,
was the developmental screening. We've known for a long time that this
is a chronic issue for Elijah. He sees the developmental pediatrician
for this purpose. He's been in Early Intervention, and yesterday we
began his evaluation for speech therapy services. I know he has not met
typical developmental milestones, and I've largely accepted this fact.
So, it surprised me that I was feeling a little sad filling out their
questionnairre and repeatedly having to circle "NO".
"Does he say mama and dada?" NO
"Does he point to his mother and father?" NO
"Does he know that mama and dada refer to specific people?" NO
"Does he speak at least three other words besides mama and dada?" NO
"Does he speak at least five words besides mama and dada?" NO
"Can he use a spoon and fork?" NO
"Can he dress himself with your assistance?" NO
And on and on it went. So many questions with NOs. I finally noticed on
the top that it said "Please stop answering if you get to three NOs"
and so I put my pen down and didn't even bother to look at the other
side of the paper.
I realized at that moment, how much I *hate* filling out those forms. I
*hate* those stupid developmental checklists that they constantly throw
at you, at every stupid appointment, in the back of every stupid
pamphlet of information they hand out. Why do they have to do that
every time? Isn't it enough that he failed your little checklist the
last five times we've been in there? Do we have to keep rehashing and
rehashing this?
And then, there is "the look" that so many of these doctor's have
perfected. This kind of intense "this-is-not-normal" half suprised look
that they give you when they come across something they weren't
expecting.
"You mean, he doesn't know that the word mama refers to you?" giving me "the look"
"No, he doesn't"
And then of course, it's not enough that I've just admitted that to them. No, they need to see for themselves.
"Elijah, Elijah where's your mommy?" and I get to sit there in silence while I feel like some sort of experimental side show.
It bothers me. It bothers me a lot that he doesn't know I'm his mama. I
bothers me that he isn't even close to understanding my name, much less
using the word. He's nowhere closer to talking now at 17 months than he
was at 12 months. I try imagine what he will sound like. I try and
imagine what is going on in his little head. I smile at the funny
things that only toddler's say....someone's else toddler, not mine.
And, truth to be told, I don't even care about delayed talking....I
just want to hear my name. I want that connection to my child. I want
to hear "Mama!" or "I love you mama." I long for that experience. I
have been patiently waiting, and waiting and waiting. And these stupid
screenings are just salt in my wound. It's like I'm having my nose
rubbed in it. I don't want to talk about it with you, when all you can
do it tell me what I already know-- it's not "normal."
Mostly, I don't talk about it with any one. Because no one knows what
to do with sadness. It makes them uncomfortable. And they deal with it
by telling me things like "Don't worry, he'll start talking up a storm
one day and you'll wish he'd never started." or "Once he starts, he'll
scream your name so many times you'll wish he'd never learned it."
That's not true, it's not nice, and it's certainly not validating. So,
I keep my mouth shut. I cheerily tell people that every thing is o.k.,
that it's no big deal. And for the most part, I really am o.k. with it.
I don't love him any less, and I'm very grateful because things could
be a lot worse. I truly, truly am. But every once in a while, I feel
sad for a wish unfulfilled. And this is one of those times.
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| Everywhere I look, there are reminders of Hurricane Katrina.
Today at the supermarket, one of the local churches was running a huge
Hurricane Katrina donation drive in the parking lot. There were signs
throughout the grocery store letting us know they were there all week,
and how much our donations were needed.
On the way to drop off Elijah's forms to his speech therapist, I heard
yet again on the radio about another local relief effort being
organized by the Lions Club in our area.
When I got home, I had an email from someone in our local mother's
club, letting us all know that her family was running supplies to the
refugees who had been evacuated to the D.C. Armory.
I can't quite explain the feelings I have, seeing the overwhelming
outpouring towards Katrina victims. It seems as if the entire country
is singularly focused on doing whatever is in their power to help those
affected by this storm.
Part of me feels a quiet reassurance in seeing the good that lies in
humanity so publicly exposed...the God-driven desire to help one
another, to be generous, gracious, sacrifical, loving, gentle, and
compassionate. It is affirming to see the Lord at work, the fruits of
the Spirit manifested.
At the same time, I feel a small twinge in my stomach. I can't
help but wonder-- where is all this outpouring of support for the
needy, destitute, homeless, jobless, who didn't end up in that
condition in such a public or spectacular manner? Where are the
around-the-clock telethons? Why aren't church groups sitting in our
supermarket every day of the week?
Each and every day, there are
hundreds of thousands of homeless families scattered across our nation.
Each and every day, there are tens of thousands of children who
have no home to live in, and no food to eat except that which is
provided in a shelter or at school. But well-to-do citizens aren't
lined up ten people deep outside the local family shelters in D.C.
begging to be allowed to donate something, like they were
standing outside outside the D.C. Amory today waiting for 400 evacuees
of New Orleans.
"We slept on the roof for three
days," said Cleo Breland, 48, who had used to help shampoo hair in New
Orleans. "Man, I don't have no ID on me, no nothing." Now, he said,
everybody wanted to help, wanted to treat the evacuees "like movie
stars."
"It's weird" he said.
Washington Post, Sept. 07 page A16
Like movie stars. It's an interesting choice of words .
I can't help but see the irony, even though I hate how cynical it makes
me. But, there is great irony in the fact that most of these evacuees,
who people lined up to greet by the hundreds in the wee hours of the
morning, are people who could have used a helping hand long before
Hurricane Katrina arrived. And when I scroll through the thousands of
people who have offered their homes to Katrina victims on three
different websites, it strikes me that those most in need of stranger's
housing are those with absolutely no resources and no family; those
living paycheck to paycheck, perhaps those in Section 8 and other
welfare funded housing. Poor people and poor families, who were only
one disaster away from destitution. If that disaster had been a lost
job, or a cancer, or a car accident, there would be no list of families
throughout the country willing to take them in. No offers for money to
get them across country to those waiting homes.
Movie Stars. Celebrities.
There does seem to be a desperation to know that one is personally
helping a Katrina victim. It *is* truly a wonderful thing to see that
these people will get the help and support they need to rebuild their
lives after finding their whole world reduced to nothing in the matter
of a couple of hours. But I wonder and wonder....will these same people
so motivated to help these victims transfer that motivation to far
less glamorous, far less famous, far less sensational
victims that live in their own neighborhoods and are no less desperate
for help?
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