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.