Confessions of a Special Needs Mom

It seems that God has answered our prayers in regards to what to do with our pending adoption. I'm writing that post now and will try to share soon.

But for now, I thought I'd share about what I've learned about myself during this process.

We spent many weeks compiling a list of "special needs" we would consider. And then when we found the child we felt was ours, we spent many hours researching and talking with doctors about what kind of long-term care she would need and how we could improve her quality of life.

And here's what I discovered. There was no "special need" on any listing that outdid my own "special needs." I felt that it would only be fair for any prospective adoptive child to be given the same information on this possible mother with full disclosure of all imperfections.

My file would read something like this:

She goes by the name "Kathie." She is considered an "older parent" (over the age of 40) although there are no grants available. Should you choose her, it is with the understanding that by the time you are in high school, others will think she is your grandmother.

She will need reading glasses to read you a bedtime story and may not be able to stand upright after sitting Indian style at a tea party.

She has many well-meaning behaviors that may cause extreme irritation. For example, she will take millions of photos of you but has no actual photography skills. You will have to put up with the auto-flashing and shutter-clicking, but you'll only have out-of-focus pics with your eyes closed to show for your patience.

Small toys not put away will mysteriously disappear. She can't stand "happy meal" items that didn't make anyone happy and you should note that these items are quickly donated or discarded.

She will sing you lullabies in spite of the fact that she is completely tone deaf.

She will want to dress you until you go to college. This may not be an issue in the early years, but by the time you are a teen, you will be wondering if you can escape through the air-conditioning vents of the dressing room during a shopping trip gone bad.

She will occasionally go freaky with the food she serves--going gluten-free, low-sugar, wholly whole wheat, and completely organic. You may try to trade up lunch items at school but no one will want a protein bar that tastes like cardboard in exchange for their Little Debbie snack cake. And then there are moments that she passes a Krispy Kreme establishment and the "hot donuts" sign is on. You should not call her a hypocrite if you'd like to partake of the white-flour, sugar-glazed manna that she is about to inhale.

She will often seem completely unfair. There will be movies and music and TV shows that everyone is allowed to see and hear, and you will be the ONLY one not watching/listening. If you ask why, she will simply respond with "Not Philippians 4:8 standards." ("Whatever things are good, pure, lovely, think on these things. . . .")

When you need clean socks you will be directed to a laundry basket solely dedicated to socks who have no partner. It is your job to play matchmaker and find two that are somewhat the same size and color. Good luck.

You will be fine if you need this mom to provide help in proofing papers, annotating poetry, and diagramming sentences, but you will up a creek without a scientific calculator if you need math help past the 6th grade. The Pythagorean Theorem makes her break out in hives, any attempt to find the area of a complex polygon will reduce her to her lowest common denominator, and she would rather poke her eyes out with a protractor than check your math homework.

She is a strong advocate for enjoying God's creation. She will pull over on the side of the road to behold a sunset, a rainbow, or wildflowers growing among asphalt. She will make everyone stop what they are doing to hear the birds singing outside and make you watch butterflies instead of TV. She will insist that you run outside at night to marvel at the stars and require that everyone pose for a picture with the first flower of springtime (which will no doubt capture you not smiling and cut off part of your head).


Although she cooks with love, she also cooks using whatever she has in the pantry and with the fewest number of ingredients possible. All her recipes are named something that ends in the word "surprise" (some surprises are better than others) and it's a safe bet that these culinary creations will never be featured on Food Network.

She absolutely can not handle whining or pouting. If there are words/sounds/looks that even hint at ungratefulness, you will be forced to select an item from her "consequence jar." On this little slip of paper, you will read your consequence (for example, wiping down baseboards and window blinds) for attempting to voice your concern. It's her sick way of teaching you a lesson while having you do a chore that she hates to do herself.

She suffers from Broken Record Syndrome. For example, you will hear phrases such as "good behavior equals privileges, bad behavior equals consequences" repeated till you think your ears are going to be permanently damaged.


She is a cryer. She will cry at your classroom doorway on the first day of school and at your ballet recital or soccer game. She will weep the first time you get your hair cut, swim without floaties, and ride a bike without training wheels. She will wail at birthday parties, graduations, and your wedding day. (Note: We are not talking delicate tears caught in monogrammed handkerchiefs. We are talking big ugly sobbing, sometimes snorting, pass-that-woman-a-box-of-tissues kinds of boo-hooing.) She is also a hugger and a kiss blower. You've been warned.

She might have attachment issues. Every single time another child is added to the family, she worries and wonders how she can possibly love the new one as much as the others. (But she, thus far, has had no trouble attaching to the ones God has given her.)


No matter how hard she tries, she will never understand what it feels like to be taken from your home country, to lose the only family and friends you have ever known, to have to learn a new language, adapt to a new culture, and acquire a taste for new food.


She will often feel overwhelmed in caring for your physical and emotional needs and wonder if she will ever be the mother you deserve. She won't understand that some days you need special care and other days you just want to be treated like everyone else.

Sometimes she gets tired, sometimes she feels stress, sometimes she loses her patience, sometimes she says things that she wishes she could take back.


She is a sinner, in need of a Savior, living in a fallen world, raising children who are sinners, in need of a Savior, living in a fallen world. And this means that she is flawed, that she will make mistakes, that she will need forgiveness.

And this is why she often feels so unworthy to be the mother of those precious children God has already entrusted her with and why she is so grateful for every child He brings to their family.


Hoping Someone Chooses My File,
Kathie

Technical Difficulties

Okay. It seems every time I log onto my blog I feel like I've been robbed. It started with my playlist below. I added my favorite songs each week so anyone who stopped by could find some encouragement with the listed tunes.

Occasionally I'd see one disappear. I could handle one loss from the musical cookie jar at a time. But a few weeks ago I looked at my playlist and at least HALF my beloved songs were gone! I'm trying not to take it personally but the paranoid side of me wonders if the heads of major record labels got together, expressed concern that some crazy lady was listing their songs on her blog and calling them "dessert", and decided to put an end to it.

It hurt. Losing Leeland was bad enough, but to take Third Day . . . below the belt.

So today I pulled up my blog and realized my background had disappeared. To most bloggers this is no big deal. They change their backgrounds like they change their clothes. They adorn their blogs with cute little seasonal patterns and accessorize with bloggy buttons that blink like pocket-sized billboards.

Not me. I am loyal to the background that I painstakingly posted by my technologically challenged self. Just seeing "html code" makes me break into hives. If I want to cut and paste, I use safety scissors and a glue stick.

All this to explain why there is a new background. It's not that I'm adventurous, just that someone took my cyber clothes and I grabbed the first thing I could put on. I just hope my new outfit doesn't make my sidebar look too big. ;)

Technically Insane,
Kathie

Facebook Confessions

Okay, I don't have the time to write a Memorial Box Monday this week, but I do have a few minutes to take part in other MckLinky fun.

"Not Me" Monday was started by MckMama. (Click on the bloggy button to read other confessions of things they didn't do." )

Today I'm going to share some things that I certainly do NOT think about Facebook and would absolutely NEVER share with my Facebook friends.

I do NOT get frustrated with the creators at Facebook for "improving" the layout and settings as soon as I get used to the current way things are done.

I am NOT going to tell you that if you are depending on me to help you with your Farmville, your livestock and crops are going to die terrible deaths. I'm lucky to keep my real live pets and plants alive over here.

I do NOT freak out every time I am notified that someone has "written on my wall." After 13 years of having real little people write on my real walls, this is not something I can handle, even on a figurative level.

I do NOT get frustrated with people who tag unflattering photos of me and I would NEVER be tempted to tag ugly pics of them in retaliation (a closed eye for a closed eye, a double chin for a double chin).

I do NOT untag bad photos of myself--that would be vain. But if the mouse accidentally clicks on Untag--well, oopsie.

I'm NOT going to warn you that if you post a photo of me in a bathing suit, I have Photoshop and am not afraid to use it.

I do NOT feel guilty that my FB photo albums are as far behind as my real life photo albums.

I do NOT think there should be other options to the "Like" button--perhaps "Too Brain Dead to Comment".

I do NOT have refrain from jealousy after seeing others post amazing pics from exotic trips while the biggest adventure I've been on in the past few months is to the grocery store. (But the view from the produce section was amazing.)

I do NOT need Facebook: Attention Deficit Edition, because I'll see a post or that a friend is having a birthday, plan to return later when I have time to comment, then end up forgetting who I was going to write. (They really should have a belated birthday listing for people like me.)
I do NOT see those who posted their high scores on games with bubbles and jewels and make a mental note that you might have time to watch my kiddos the next time I need to go the dentist.

I am NOT going to admit to being sucked into the Facebook black hole and have lost hours of my life watching videos of kids at their piano recitals and viewing baby/wedding/vacation/holiday pics.

I do NOT wonder about people who take the time to join clubs with names like "I'm a Fan of Navel Lint." (And I do NOT think there should be an "Ummm. You're crazy" button.)

But I AM grateful that Facebook has helped me reconnect with old friends, meet new friends, and stay in touch with many dear friends.

Logging Off,
Kathie

My Funny Valentine

I have a love-hate relationship with Valentine’s Day. And considering this is a day set aside for expressing love, I’m sorry to admit that many years have been heavy on the hate.

Maybe it’s because of society-imposed expectations of what this day represents and how it should be celebrated. In a world that often seems divided into the Haves and Have-nots, on February 14 it can seem these categories have been renamed Loved and Unloved. But I was lucky to learn an important Valentine’s lesson early in life.

I must preface my story by letting you know that as a ninth grader I was two feet taller than any boy in my class and weighed less than a small domestic dog--and most of those pounds belonged to my hair. (It was the 80’s and I grew up in a city known for its humidity--you do the math.) I had taken terms like “awkward phase,” “really bad perm,” and “self-esteem issues” to new levels. That was the year someone suggested that by spray-painting myself green, I could trick-or-treat as a stalk of broccoli. But it wasn’t until that fateful February day that I felt like a character from a Judy Blume novel.

The student government at my high school had an annual fundraiser. They would take orders for carnations in white, pink, and red and on V-day deliver them to the fortunate recipients during morning classes. I didn’t think much of it when the first flowers arrived and ignored the giggles of the girls reading the attached construction paper cards from their prince charmings and “best buds 4 ever.” But soon I realized that I was the only girl in the class who hadn’t gotten a flower. (Even some boys had gotten them!)

Like listening to kernels of popcorn in a microwave, I knew that as the flurry of flower delivery slowed down they had almost finished distribution. In ten minutes the bell would ring and I would have to navigate the halls of flower laden girls empty-handed.

But then the classroom door opened and a delivery girl walked in. It seemed she was coming toward me, although I wasn’t sure because--thanks to the hair--I had very little peripheral vision. My heart raced as inside I was praying, “Please, God, let it be for me.” And then . . . prayers were answered, angels sang, and all was right with the world as she tapped my shoulder and handed me the most beautiful pink carnation a dollar ever bought.

I slowly looked down at the attached card--dying to know who had sent it--yet not wanting to look like I cared. And then I read simple words that I’ve carried with me for the rest of my life: “Thanks for being my little sister. I love you.”

It was quite a shock, because the sentiment usually coming from my sister’s mouth was along the lines of, “Get out of my room!” She was a senior that year and perhaps she remembered what it was like to be a freshman of my make and model. But I doubt when she wrote that card she knew how much those words would make me feel valued or how “I love you” could erase insecurity. And it wasn’t because I had joined the ranks of those who had flowers, but because I had joined the ranks of those she loved. And I must say that my dear big sis is one of God's greatest blessings in my life today.

So what’s the moral of the story? That flowers have always been overpriced or that a woman nearing 40 should really let go of things that happened in high school? Although, yes, these are valid answers, I think the real lesson is that sweethearts come in a number of varieties and that Valentine’s Day not only celebrates love between lovers, but also love between friends.

Over the years I’ve tasted a Whitman’s Sampler of Valentine’s Days. Thanks to my husband, I’ve had my share of candlelit dinners, sweet-smelling bouquets, and love letters that make me forget I was ever in the ninth grade. And, thanks to my children, I’ve gotten handmade cards, sticky hugs and kisses and living examples of unconditional love. But, thanks to family and friends, I’ve learned that the love of a friend can get you through the semi-sweet years and make the good years even sweeter.

So this year if you find yourself the “older sister” to a little girl with big hair (or a big boy who is losing his), send a card, make a phone call, or give a hug and say, “Thanks for being my . . . sister, brother, mother, father, grandchild, daughter, son, neighbor, friend. I love you.” Because on Valentine’s Day there should be only one category of people. And that is Loved.

With Love,
Kathie

The Taming of the Do

Sometimes I feel I get too serious on my blog so I'm going to try to add more "just for fun" posts to lighten things up. At Once Upon a Miracle they do something called True Story Tuesday. So I decided to join their fun by telling a true (yet humbling) story. Click the bloggy button below and enjoy some other true tales.



To the untrained eye, it looked like I had an easy day ahead. It was a Saturday morning and I was out on good behavior. (Translation: my husband was watching the kids so I could get a haircut.)

“Haircut” sounds innocent so it’s important that you understand why these periodic groomings are less about personal beautification and more for public service. I have that kind of hair that elicits questions like, “Were you in an accident?” And, regardless of the price of the haircut (and I’m always billed by the hour), my hair only does one style--the Bride of Frankenstein. Thus considering the discomfort and humiliation that comes with getting my hair done, I’d rather get my pampering at the gynecologist.

But that day I had a new stylist not yet hardened by the reality of unmanageable hair. She worked feverishly cutting, blowing, ironing and spraying. And then she spun the chair around for me to behold her work and for the first time in my life my hair didn’t look nervous and confused.

I knew my hairy godmother had waved her magic straightening wand and at the stroke of midnight (or when I attempted to style it myself) I would once again look like I had been electrocuted. This hair was too pretty to waste on cleaning the shower, so I decided to run some errands on the way home.

I visited the dry cleaners, the grocery store, a gift shop . . . every possible stop except the gas station (because with all the hair products I was highly flammable). But instead of the usual smiles and hellos, clerks and customers were staring and children were pointing. I figured they were surprised to see me on a humid day when my mane wasn’t eclipsing the sun. But when I got back in my car and glanced into my rearview mirror, I discovered why being near-sighted and brunette is a lethal combination.

Apparently during my Extreme Hair Makeover, I had grown a full beard. Yes, my stylist had accidentally polyurethaned to my face the two inch hair remnants that usually end up on the salon floor. And I’m not talking about a light dusting. I had enough unusual facial hair to be one of the Backstreet Boys.

It’s during these adventures in Humiliation Land that you have a few choices: laugh, cry, or move far, far away. As I sat alone in my mom-mobile, I laughed until I was doubled over and tickling my knees with the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.

Blackbeard the Mommy returned home to Dad worn out from six games of Pretty Pretty Princess and a Fisher Price doctor’s exam that would horrify the medical community. I was greated with "thank God you're home" and a chorus of "mommy!" Hubs and cherubs told me that my hair looked beautiful and my face looked, ummm, fluffy. Although “post-animal shelter” was not the look I was going for, I was grateful to be home surrounded by people who love me--whiskers and all.

Wearing a Baseball Cap,
Kathie