It's Been a While

 Thirteen years. Time does fly, but I fully understand why it has been 13 years since I last wrote here. I say here because I have written elsewhere. Little journal entries and sometimes just a slip of random paper - efforts to vent a bit just to keep my sanity or at least keep a record as to why I finally took a plunge off the deep end. Where do I start?

Lexi was in our lives for 18 months. I will sum up pretty quickly what went down because I don't know that I have the bandwidth (yet) to go into too much detail. 

We found out what was wrong with Lexi by meeting her birth parents. I usually give all parents the benefit of a doubt. I am a birth parent, and I would die for my children in the blink of an eye. I tend to believe most other parents would as well. But there are some who live such a utterly self-centered existence they cannot give consideration to the needs of their children. It simply isn't possible to consider anything or anyone besides themselves because they are consumed with themselves. Lexi was born to two such people. Her father. Oh, my word. I don't know how to begin to describe this man. He was the most difficult person for me to be around. I was in physical agony any time I had to spend any time near him. He could. Not. Stop. Talking about himself. If anyone made a comment about his daughter, or anything else, he would turn it into something about himself. If a doctor said she was making progress in a certain area, he would instantly reply that HE was making progress in that same area. Any physical attribute that was brought up was a prompt for him to spout, "She gets that from me!"  Once a doctor mentioned her constantly wet chin, neck, and shirt from spit and drool running down her face. He gave the knee-jerk response of, "She gets that from me!" I looked at him and said, "Oh really? Are you still teething?" 

Lexi's mother was a different kind of different. She was disinterested in everything, including her child. She could have cared less if Lexi ever came home. She already had lost four other children to neglect and they had been adopted out. To the father, Lexi was another shot at gaining the attention he so desperately wanted the world to shower on him. The mother didn't want attention, or effort, or personal hygiene. Lexi looked like work to her. So, when Lexi wasn't bringing in attention for the dad, she was left to herself in a pack-n-play. She was never bathed, cuddled, played with, fed, or talked to. The mother once commented that doctors told her she had to speak to her daughter, but she retorted she doesn't speak to anyone, so why should she start now! That's as much effort as she was willing to put into her daughter. Lexi was given food, but not fed. I never thought those two things were different, but they are. She was given propped up bottles of whole milk until she could bring her hand to her mouth. Then she was given Cheetos (her favorite food, according to dad) and maybe a piece of bread, or whatever else fell to the floor. She had never had a utensil in her mouth until she came to live with us. She disliked being dressed because she rarely wore clothing. She lived in dirty diapers with open, painful, festering wounds. Her feet were deformed because she spent the majority of her life peering over the edge of a pack-n-play, high up on her toes. Her feet grew that way. This is the same reason she couldn't walk at 16 months old. She knew how to make steps, but she fell approximately every third step. She had never needed to walk more than two steps - the width of her portable jail. Some people might think how sad it is her parents weren't getting the support they needed to care for their child. This couple was expert at "getting support." They even had someone coming into their home on a weekly basis to teach them how to clean their filthy home. I often wondered how two people could suck up so much benevolence and good will, not to mention resources, and still be utter failures at life. Do I sound cynical? Sorry. It gets worse. 

For the time Lexi was with us, we loved her. Truly deeply loved her. We took her to every kind of therapy we could get her into. We played with her, snuggled her stiff, resistant body until it softened, looked into her crystal-blue vacant eyes until she looked back. She began to talk. She wasn't deaf after all. She began to smile and eventually laugh. She was diagnosed with something called Environmental Retardation. Maybe there is a more politically correct term for it now. But that diagnosis term sticks out in my memory because it is so heartbreaking. It means she was born full of hope and potential, but not given the stimulation or tools to develop during that critical window of time that every child has. She could progress and learn, but she would never be what she could have been. 

Lexi was the first child my husband and I seriously discussed adoption over. We did not begin our fostering journey with the intention of adopting. But when we came to Lexi - the innocent and utterly vulnerable child victim, we began to talk about what raising her would look like. Ultimately we wouldn't have to be concerned about adopting Lexi. After almost a year and a half, she was returned to that house of horrors. Yes, returned. It was so unbelievable and crushing to us, we gave up on foster parenting. We thought,  what does it matter? You pour yourself out in an effort to give hope to a child and that hope is snatched away in an instant. WE were the bad guys all of a sudden for wanting to break up a family and the people who did the absolute bare minimum to check the boxes for the county are the heroes. The thing about those boxes, they don't insure any kind of human dignity for the child. They are just boxes to be checked. 

There was a brief flicker of hope, however, when we got a call two weeks later. Lexi had been found in nothing but a dirty diaper wandering the trailer park during the day while her parents slept inside their filthy single-wide. She wouldn't speak and couldn't be returned home, so the police were called. We had to be in court that day for an emergency placement hearing. Of course, I cancelled everything and raced to court just for a glimpse of the sweet girl that I loved so much. A glimpse is all I got because she was right back to her feral, robotic self. But this time she could not only walk, she could run. She outran every attempt her mother made to corral her. I stood outside the courtroom as she dodged and squirmed and flailed to avoid any human touch. Her eye contact and smiles were long gone. Her mother looked even more disheveled and tired than usual. I believe the mom would have been happy to turn her back and walk away. However, the overly-eager, hyper-talking dad was there explaining and explaining how she had escaped and how they were putting measures into place that it would never happen again. Without consideration, the Judge returned that helpless child to their clutches and we dispersed. The greedy father snatched Lexi up with a look of triumph and marched out of the courthouse, followed by the sluggish and depressed-looking mother. They packed up whatever they could manage to fit into their nearly broken-down vehicle that night and moved out of state. I am not exaggerating. That night. 

For us, that was the absolute end of our foster parenting as far as we were concerned. It was Spring, 2013. Our license ran out in July and we would not renew. Until...

Not Just a Number

Lexi is the 15th foster child that we have had live in our home. She arrived one evening while I was at work. My husband and kids were here to welcome her. What sticks out in my mind is calling home anxiously wondering what this new little person in our life would be like. My husband was kind of vague when describing her. Dark hair; overweight. Then I finally asked the question that seems so shallow, but one that we all wonder: "Is she cute?" To which Greg replied, "Uh, no, not really." It made me laugh because I could not imagine any 16 month old baby girl who was not cute. I figured he was just dreading the sleepless nights and lost freedom (and lost TV remote) of having a new little one living with us. I don't have those concerns in the beginning. Each child is like a Christmas present that needs to be unwrapped. The excitement of not knowing what is inside is what keeps me fostering.

From the beginning we knew that Lexi was different from any child we had had before. She was completely non-verbal. She didn't even make a sound unless she was crying, which she rarely did. She walked way high on her toes so that her feet had grown to be deformed. They were shaped like a duck's foot except they were very thick and her toes kind of dangled at the top when she was flat-footed. Finding shoes for her feet was nearly impossible.

Lexi made no eye contact and moved constantly. She walked, walked, walked- falling every few steps due to her very unstable gait. She spun in little circles and walked backward as much as forward. She never stopped moving. When she was forced to hold still, she rocked and swayed back and forth. Lexi rubbed her little middle finger against her thumb constantly. She would not be engaged in any activity. If I tried to get her attention with a toy, she would take it as she walked past, shaking it in an awkward way with her arm outstretched as she kept moving.

Within a day we also noticed that she apparently could not hear. We were told that other professionals in her life such as her pediatrician and therapists had sent her for two hearing tests because they had the concern that she could not hear as well. The results were inconclusive. She completely ignored all sounds whether it be her own name being called out, or something as jarring as a pot being hit with a spoon right next to her. She was oblivious. We scheduled her third hearing test.

Lexi had great challenges with eating. She did not know what to do when we would put a bowl of food with a soon or fork in front of her. She would take that bowl and turn it upside down without attempting to eat. Then she would pick up the utensil and strike it repeatedly against the tray or whatever made the loudest noise. When I would try to feed her with a utensil, she would thrust her tongue forward as a small baby just learning to eat would do- making most of the food drip down her chin. If I gave her finger food, such as a sliced banana, she would stuff it all in her mouth at an alarming rate and begin gagging. Even while gagging, however, she would continue to stuff more food in! It was so distressing to witness. I had to feed her little bits of food at a time, not leaving it available to her to put in her mouth by herself, lest she choke.

Although she rarely cried, she screamed when being changed due to the blistering, bleeding diaper rash she arrived with. She also resisted getting dressed by stiffening her arms and legs in a confusing manner. She seemed unfamiliar with even the most basic childhood routines such as bathing, dressing and eating with utensils. Each time I worked with her I would wonder what was inside this little person. What was she capable of? How much could she understand and progress? What hope did her future hold? Lexi was a mystery.

Why Fostering Hope for a Blog Title?

It may seem strange that I titled this blog Fostering Hope when I am talking about hoarding! Clearly, for me, hoarding is not such an issue that tackling it would “foster hope” for me. Well, it does a bit I guess. Especially since I come from a long line of hoarders. I grew up in a home where you could eat off the floor – literally. For my mother and her siblings, hoarding things is truly extreme. It is a condition that is impossibly difficult to understand. I don't even understand why I keep the things that I do, much less the junk that they do. It is kind of like having a parent with any particular malady whether it be a mental illness or a biological one. You fear that someday you may end up suffering with the same thing. That is me with hoarding. It really came to light when my friend, Jodi, told me that she only has three pair of jeans and sixteen pair of socks. It kind of sent me into a panic. Had I become a hoarder-in-denial without even being aware of it? I immediately went to my sock drawer and starting counting! In the days since that friendly intervention, I have come to a balanced conclusion that Mother Theresa would be considered a hoarder compared to Jodi. I have since referred Jodi to social services to see if she qualifies for some kind of assistance so she can get at least another pair of jeans.

Back to the Fostering Hope title. The day I wrote that was the day that my last little foster child went to live with his great-uncle and aunt. It was the first time in my 10 months of being a foster parent that I was without a child in my home who was not related to me by birth. It feels very strange indeed. And, I must confess, very relaxing. It is a reprieve that I am happy to have for the time being. I have no idea what (or possibly who) God has for us next, but I am leaving that in His hands. Since becoming a foster mom, I have come to the conclusion that God truly does know best, even when what is happening is very different from what I would have chosen for these little ones who have temporarily become part of our family. “God knows best” has become a mantra for me during the best and worst of times as a foster parent. When I am holding a precious little one to my chest, not wanting to let go – ever, I have to tell myself that God knows best. And when I am wondering why I ever chose to
become a foster parent in the first place after the 12^th meltdown in one day from a four-year-old with Reactive Attachment Disorder, I have to remind myself that God put that little one in my home, and He knows best.  

Progress!

I have been slowly, sometimes painfully, ridding myself of unneeded extras. I don't even know where all of this stuff comes from. I am not a big shopper. But I am a big keeper. In the last week I threw out 15 bottles of nail polish, 38 ink pens, and at least a dozen unflattering shades of lipstick. I still have all of the nail polish, ink pens and lipstick I will ever need left. So why do I have so much stuff? I think it comes down to pretty much one thing for me. I stink at making decisions. I never even filed my daughter's birth certificate for almost a whole year after she was born because I was so indecisive about her name! I don't like the finality of decisions. By the time my next child was born, they wouldn't let us out of the hospital without choosing a name for his birth certificate. It got to the point where the hospital staff were calling us every 15 minutes telling us they needed a name for our baby! Most people have that kind of stuff figured out long before they are even pregnant. I often regret the decisions that I make so I revert to not making them. But I am finally starting to figure out that not making a decision is often worse than making a bad one. The only time I can say that rule doesn't apply is when it comes to tattoos.

Confessions of a Hoarder

Confessions of a Hoarder

Today my worst fears about myself were confirmed after months of denial. I am a Hoarder! I had never even heard of that word until 2010 when the mental condition of obsessing over useless crap we can't let go of was officially identified and given a clinical name on network TV. I went to jump up and throw away some things just to say I could do it. I grabbed a basket off the top of my china hutch. But then I paused. It is a sturdy, useful basket. Good for so many things. It has handles for crying out loud. That basket would be perfect for fruit or any number of items that need containing. So I moved it to my dining table where it sits even as I write this. I need help!!!

Undaunted by the basket, however, I went straight to my sock drawer. I have socks from the 80's! Those suckers just don't wear out when you are a semi-full-time couch potato! I seriously have pink socks, yellow socks, white knee-highs with a sparkle heart about mid-calf! I grew more disgusted with myself with each pair I counted. So I did throw 19 pairs out. Now I have 23 pairs left not including the dress socks (they are so thin - they hardly take up any room) and the fuzzy blue ones that say "I Love Jesus" on the side. I mean, wouldn't it be sacrilegious to throw those away?  I'm not taking any chances on that.

According to the sooth-sayers on TV, it is not my fault. It is all because of cortisol. No wait, that is the cause of the belly fat that I have accumulated in recent years. This particular condition called Hoarding is (gasp) a mental illness. Never before have I been so happy to be labeled mentally ill. At least now I know I am not responsible for the 24 crystal plates with matching punch cups that have been taking up space in my cupboard without ever being used since smoking while eating tiny sandwiches, while sipping punch was considered fashionable – hence the cigarette holder on the crystal plate (I am not kidding!) Have I yet mentioned that I don't smoke, have never made punch, have a strong dislike for entertaining and have never even tasted one of those tiny sandwiches? Yet, I can't seem to let go of those cute little plates and cups! Classic Hoarder!

Unlike with most confessions, I don't really feel “cleansed” or like a weight has been lifted. I have worked pretty well at keeping up the denial. You see, you can walk through my house without knowing my dirty little secret. I am an organized hoarder. I have things labeled and stacked and packed and my house appears pretty clean. But, due to the sheer volume of useless items that I shelter and manage, it takes a lot of mental and physical energy just to keep up.

Now that the word it out there – Hoarder – I am on my way. I am even putting it online for all to see. Though I am the only one reading this right now, it makes me feel accountable. So, here I go. When I hit “post” it is my official commitment to a new, simplified, streamlined life. I will keep working on the whole getting-rid-of thing and report my progress next time. Maybe I will have a tearful picture taken of me saying good-bye to my mountain of useless crap.