The countdown begins

My surgery is in exactly 17 days and I'm so excited I can hardly stand it.

I started my liquid diet today, something I've been dreading for months but now that today is here I'm pretty okay with it. I'm actually not supposed to start until Monday but I decided to start today. I gained five pounds over the past month (might have had something to do with Thanksgiving and/or my period- who knows) that I need to be sure to lose before the surgery so I figured I might as well get a head-start.

It's funny...I thought that I would totally freak out having to give up food during this time but instead I'm finding myself excited about it. For the first time in my life I feel not just hopeful that I will lose weight, but confident that it will happen. There have been countless times in my life that I've tried to diet but other than a few pounds at the beginning I've never had much success. The lack of success led to feeling like a failure which quickly led to giving up and feeling even more like a failure, especially since giving up meant gaining back the weight that I had lost plus more.

My body is a mess. I have been significantly overweight for as long as I can remember. When people (doctors included) ask me what my goal weight is I tell them I have no idea. It's true, I really don't. Based on BMI standards I should weigh between 105 and 135lbs. The problem is, I haven't weight 135 since I was 11 years old! Do you think you could ever weigh what you weighed in grade school?! NO! So the thought of having an "appropriate BMI" seems pretty fricken impossible.

When I think back to a time that I was a "healthy weight", when I was super active (and the same height I am now) I think about 1990, when I was almost 14 and weighed 165lbs. I was still "big", still the "fat kid" (compared to others my age), but I was doing gymnastics five days a week and probably in the best shape of my life. I still had a dimple of cellulite on my upper left thigh but I was otherwise pretty toned or as toned as I could be. (My mom would always tell me my butt was so hard!) So I've decided that my ultimate weight goal is 165lbs, I don't know if it's actually attainable- like I said, I was 14 years old the last time I weighed that much, but I'm definitely going to give it a try. However, instead of stressing myself out over a number on the scale, my main focus is fitness. There are so many things I want to be able to do, one of them is a Mud Run- a 3 mile obstacle course...IN THE MUD! There's one in May 2012 which I think would be AWESOME, but since I have no idea how much weight I will have lost by then or more importantly what kind of shape I'll be in, it might be a little far fetched. I think I'll know better come February whether or not that goal is reasonable. Is it February yet?!

I had a little melt down on Monday. I have been seeing a therapist in anticipation of the surgery as well as other issues I'm trying to work through (ADD for one) and she told me during our visit on Monday that if I was going to be successful at losing weight I was going to need to be regimented. Anyone who knows me, knows that regiment is a like four letter word in my book. It's probably what I need most in my life (especially for the ADD) but it's EXTREMELY difficult for me to fathom and even more so, to implement. Grr! So armed with this bit of information I came home feeling like I was going to fail. There was no doubt in my mind. I mean, I had already been worried about it. For the past several weeks I'd been worrying that I was going to fail, that I'd be the 3% (or whatever the number is) that the surgery doesn't work for and that'd be it. It'd be one more failed diet to add to my list of failures. I was feeling depressed and stressed to the max, then when she told me that I'd have to be regimented it was like one more nail in the failure-coffin. So I cried...a lot. Brett was such a trooper, he listened, tried to be reassuring and of course laughed at me a little because well, that's what he does. I laughed a little at myself too. I knew I was being ridiculous but I couldn't help it. There's a LOT of pressure involved with all of this. Expectations for something that there's no way of knowing what to expect. (I DO NOT LIKE NOT KNOWING WHAT TO EXPECT!)

I finally decided to call my friend Kayce who had the surgery last year and she was able to talk me down. She has had INSANE results that I had chalked up to being "luck" but when she told me how hard she's worked, how she's stuck to the diet and exercised regularly I realized "duh! I can do that too!" I hadn't realized just how dumb I was being about the whole situation. I mean, I KNEW that it was going to be "hard", that's what everyone tells you, but I just thought they meant it was going to be hard to eat (or not to eat), not that the process was going to be hard work! Yes, I know how dumb that sounds and no, I did not think that it was going to be easy, I just didn't...I don't know, I just thought it was going to come down to luck.

Anyway, something clicked and I'm feeling so much better. For whatever reason, I have a tendency to make things more difficult that they need to be. Like, I am almost literally the one who goes around my ass to get to my elbow with everything in life, but once something clicks I'm brilliant. So watch out! My brilliance is about to SHINE, BIG TIME!

As for being regimented, I'm not going to stress too much about that. It will be fine. I'll get my protein in everyday and limit my carbs everyday and I'll exercise (when I'm feeling better) and I will be successful!

The weight I lose today and the next day and the next day will be the last time I EVER see those pounds AGAIN! And that my friends is the best feeling in the world!

Goings on as of Late...

Well, I'm less than five weeks from the day of my surgery (December 19th) and less than three weeks from the first day of the two-week-long dreaded liquid diet!

This whole surgery thing has sparked an array of emotions that I hadn't really expected. When I first decided that surgery was my best (only) option I felt at peace. It had been a long time coming. Something that had been mentioned to me by others but something that I wouldn't even consider because I didn't want to put off getting pregnant in order to have the surgery. Once we decided we didn't want to have kids that excuse no longer existed so I was free to do whatever I wanted.

At my initial surgical consult, I learned that I was going to have to do a three month doctor supervised weightloss plan but I wasn't going to be able to see the doctor for over a month from the day of the consult. So even though I had made the decision in May, had gone to the seminar in late May, had the consult the first of June...it was going be July 14th before I'd be able to start the required "plan"-- it seemed like an eternity.

Come September, we found out that our insurance was going to change as of January 1st and I started to freak out a little. I'd already done everything except my last follow-up visit and I was ready! So ready to get the surgery DONE! And I started worrying that the insurance company wasn't going to cover it. No Bueno!

I knew there was nothing I could do other than wait and be patient but that wasn't easy.

On October 14th, I went for my last follow up appointment. The doctor signed off on everything so that it could be sent off to the insurance company. While checking out, the clerk told me that they would send everything over to the insurance company the next day and that my insurance company usually take about six weeks to get an authorization so I could expect my surgery to be around the first of the year. WHAT?! NO! I explained to her that my insurance was going to change and that I really needed to get it done before the first of the year so she called the lady in the office who handles the insurance stuff and left her a message to call me.

That was a Tuesday. She didn't call. So Thursday I called her and explained the situation. She said that she was sending everything over that day and I'd probably hear something within 3-4 weeks. Grrrrr!

Not an hour went by that I didn't think about my surgery. Wondering if it was going to happen, knowing that it was completely out of my hands. It was up to someone who had never met me to decide if my surgery would be paid for and since it wasn't something I could afford out of pocket I felt like my future was in that person's hands.

For the past several months, ever since I'd decided to have the surgery, I felt like a whole new world had been opened up for me or at least WILL be opened up for me next year. As long as I can remember I've been living for, next year. I've been on a diet, trying to lose weight for all of my adult life, saying to myself "next year I'm going to go kayaking." "Next year, I'm going to ride the roller coasters and Carrowinds" "Next year I'll be able to buy that dress" "Next year...." I've been living for next year for 15+ years! And now, FINALLY NEXT YEAR WILL COME! Hooray for surgery! If it get's approved. Crap,what if it doesn't get approved? Then what? And what have I been doing for the past 15 years? How much of my life, the best time of most people's lives, have I wasted? I mean, I haven't just sat around and done nothing but there have certainly been MAJOR things that I have put off doing for as long as I can remember. And always living for "next year?" Yeah, that blows.

So I spent most of September and October feeling sorry for myself, realizing just how much of my life I've wasted. I'm still not over it but I am feeling more optimistic-- sort of.

I ended up get the authorization on Tuesday, October 25th. Just four working days after the paperwork had been submitted. HOLY COW! That's like record time! I was elated! It felt like I had just been cast as Mrs. Lovett in Sweeny Todd. A goal that I had set out to accomplish had been attained! I did it! It's really going to happen!

All day Tuesday I was beaming! As well as most of Wednesday, part of Thursday, some of Friday...by the follow Monday I was only barely beaming. As of today, I'm mostly beaming but the reality had certainly set in.

I'm not really scare of dying- the likelihood of that is extremely slim, however, it is major surgery and of course that risk is there. The way I see it, I'm barely living so that small risk is one I'm willing to take. Besides, if I do die, I'll be dead, I won't even know or care, it's my friends and family that I worry about. But only a little, because I'm not planning on dying. Moving on. What the realization/fear that has really set in is- failing. I've failed at so many diets and so many attempted lifestyle changes. I have so many learned bad habits and issues with food and since I've never been much of a self motivator, how will I do this on my own? How will I be successful? Growing up, I was never taught to expect to succeed. I was taught to expect to fail. Of course I was never told, "you're going to fail" but I always had hear the words of "the devil's advocate". Apparently my family has a direct line to Satan. This is not a bash against my family, this is a realization of the affects of negative thinking even though they meant well.

So now I'm working to try to over come these fears. I'm seeing a psychologist who is helping me to work through this stuff. She is taking a logical route. Telling me I should make a plan, set a schedule and get regimented. Until this very moment (literally just had an epiphany) I was fighting her tooth and nail. But she's right. For whatever reason, emotional problem solving is not my forte. At least not solving my OWN emotional problems. Instead of searching for solutions I search for answers. (Mom, I know you're reading this...you do the same thing!) The fact of the matter is, that it doesn't matter WHY I eat or WHY I do much of anything, instead it's a matter of HOW to fix it.

I suddenly feel better. Deep breath.

I'm sure I will have more ups and downs before December 19th but I'm going to try to focus on solving the problem with real, tangible tactics rather than looking for some answer to make it all make sense.

The End.

BBWs and the Men Who ? ? ? ? Them

A couple days ago I came across some pictures on someone's facebook page of a "Fat Acceptance Party". All of the pictures were of extra large women scantily dressed, surrounded my men who couldn't reach their arms around them. In the comments section below there were dozens, sometimes hundreds of comments from other men telling these women just how beautiful they were and it made me angry...

As a plus sized gal, I have been referred to as a BBW on many occasions. I have even capitalized on my stature a time or two for attention from men and for work as an actor. So don't get me wrong, I’m not saying that BBW's should not be proud or take advantage of their bodies in a healthy way. However, I have a real problem with chubby chasers (men who love BBWs) and I have an even bigger problem with the organizations who encourage the “chubbies” to deliver.

It has been a while since I was single, but I still remember it well. Going to the clubs and getting hit on by men—often. And internet dating-- a lot.

I guess I should start off by saying that growing up, my mom always taught me to be proud of who I was because that's why people would love me. She didn't go out of her way to make me feel fat or tell me so, but she and I were always aware of it. I know she meant well when she encouraged me to focus on my personality but it also made me very cognizant of the fact that no one would be "physically attracted" to me so I needed to make sure I had something to offer. This being said, it came as a HUGE surprise to me when, shortly after my first husband and I split up at age 25, I was suddenly attracting the attention of men- lots of men. Until then I was completely unaware that I possessed any sex appeal whatsoever.

Finally drawing the attention of men had me craving that attention more and more. I began posting my dating profile on several match-up websites, specifying my body-type as "more to love" and "pleasantly plump”-- the emails were flying in. I was getting the attention that my skinny friends always got, the attention that I always wanted. These men would present themselves like they were my knight in shining armor. Telling me how beautiful I was, and how they could "appreciate" a woman like me. It felt good-- until I realized what was really going on. CHUBBY CHASERS ARE LEGAL PREDATORS!

Now for my rant:

Men who like fat women are no better than men who don't like fat women- yet somehow they are applauded for their “ability to see past the fat”. Bullshit. The fact of the matter is that we are physically attracted to people before we are emotionally attracted to them and chubby chasers are no different. What makes chubby chasers bad, even harmful, is that they encourage not only an unhealthy lifestyle but they are the WORST about objectifying women. What's worse than that is that these women, who feel like outcasts in daily life, find tolerance and even acceptance in a strange underground community of BBWs and the men who love them-- If you look at pictures from one of the parties or conventions that these “fat acceptance” organizations offer, you’ll see more cleavage, corsets and skin than the trashiest of Halloween party.

These organizations say they are all about promoting awareness and acceptance and yet all they are doing is isolating themselves all while exploiting themselves for attention and...love? I don't have a problem with being proud of who/what you are no matter your shape, size, ethnicity, sexual preference or religion, but it bothers me that these women are being taken advantage of. They are blinded by the admiration and desires of men to the point of becoming completely unaware of what's really going on.

I realize that this may seem unfair- that I'm generalizing and making sweeping assumptions and accusations-- of course there are always exceptions, but you will not convince me that what I have to say doesn't hold true for the majority of the "large" population.

Sociologically (generally) speaking, women want to feel desired by men. We crave that attention to the point of requiring it in order to feel validated. Sociologically (generally) speaking, men are in control and possess all the power -- don't go getting all women's lib here! Tell me the last time one of your girlfriends fretted over whether or not the guy she met last night is going to call her. Now tell me the last time a dude did the same thing. Okay, moving on...as I was saying, women, generally speaking, feel the need to be validated by men, this makes them powerless and at the mercy of a man's desire. This is the TRUE foundation for BBW organizations, they just camouflage it as a way to promote acceptance. It’s not love, it’s a fetish. These women are being objectified.

It makes me sad for all of the overweight women out there who have not just accepted their “fate” but have embraced it and are using it to solicit (a deluded) love. It makes me sad that they will die young, deceived by a sexual fantasy leaving them to value their fat rather than themselves.

I’m not saying any of this because I think I’m better than anyone else. I’m saying it because I want women, especially overweight women to expect more for their lives. Organizations that encourage this lifestyle are doing a disservice and injustice for women.

“Fat acceptance” is a crock. Respect yourself and your body. Don't let it define who or what you are.

Mortality

I recently realized that my sense of mortality is holding me back. Not so much the dying part, but the aging part. I just turned 34 and leading up to this birthday, for the last few years in fact, I've been feeling like my life was almost over. I think a lot of it has to do with my weight and constantly feeling sluggish and unable to do the things I actually want to do but I'm also acutely aware of my mom at 40.

Leading up to my mom's 40th birthday she became temporarily disabled and temporarily bed ridden because of her back. My memory is foggy because I was young when it happened, but I do know that from there things got worse, more permanent. I don't remember how long she was laid-up, might have been three days, might have been a week, might have been longer. But I do know that she was in a lot of pain and that pain led to more pain which eventually ended up requiring spinal surgery and two knee replacements-- she has been on permanent disability ever since.

These days she gets around just fine, but she can't work long hours and still has certain limitations. I have never seen my mom run or jump. I have never seen her hike or kayak or canoe or swim in a lake, river or ocean-- I don't know if I've ever seen my mom sit on her knees. This has completely warped my sense of age and ability.

My mom has been overweight for as long as I've known her, she's been lighter than she is now and she's also been a lot heavier too. This is my normal. This is what I've always expected for myself. I thought being thin and fit and active was for others and I have always been jealous of that.

But not anymore. I WILL learn to live my life the way I want to live it. YES I WILL!

I have one more doctor appointment left in order to meet all of the prerequisites for gastric by-pass surgery and I can't wait! As long as the insurance company authorizes it: This will be my last summer wishing I could white water raft, my last fall wanting to go to Carrowinds, my last winter not going snow-tubing. Next year is MINE! I WILL do all of the things that I have been putting off for years because this is the year that I will start living!

I accomplished quite a bit these first 34 years, I can't wait to see what the next 34 bring!

LIBERATED!

Oh man! I never thought having a little piece of plastic/copper shoved up my hoo-ha could be so grand! I just got home from the GYN where my doctor delicately and close-to-painlessly inserted my brand new Paragard IUD!

I no longer have to stress about birth control and can move on with my life!

The procedure didn't feel good but now that it's over, I can CERTAINLY say it was worth it!

No more BIG, FAT lies!

I am almost 34 years old. For 27 years I have been overweight or at least aware that I was overweight. And for all 27 of those years I have done everything I could to keep it a secret. I know that sounds ridiculous but it’s true. It’s the one thing about me that I have tried to keep hidden for as long as I can remember, knowing full and well that it was impossible to disguise.

I tried to dress, as my mom put it, in flattering clothes; I participated in athletics, did theater, stayed active and pushed myself to keep up with my skinny friends. In my mid 20’s I somewhat embraced my “size”. I realized that there were men out there who sought “large women”. I went to clubs and danced, got hit on, felt attractive and even more so, I felt validated. (Which I later realized was just being objectified) Yet, even then, I wasn’t proud of my body, I hadn’t even accepted it, I just kind of pretended like it wasn’t what it was. After all, people were always telling me how beautiful I was and men were paying attention to me. I was getting roles in plays, perhaps being a little type-cast, but hey! At least I was getting parts! It actually seemed to be working in my favor.

However, the little nagging voice, the constant secret insecurity just wouldn’t let go. It was my deepest darkest secret that I never really shared with anyone, even my closest friends. People always thought I was extremely confident and often commented on how much they admired that confidence. And even when I’d try to tell them that I didn’t really FEEL that confident, they’d laugh it off and say, “well you sure can’t tell!”

I kept up this facade for about 25 years, maybe even 26 as it was just recently that I finally faced up to the truth. I am not only overweight, I am MISERABLE. Extremely miserable.

I am not living the life I want for myself. This has nothing to do with vanity, it has to do with lifestyle. I have spent so many years stressing over things, distracting myself with “how to get happy” – moving from house to house, city to city, state to state; making bad choices in men just to be with someone, having semi-annual career meltdowns, obsessing over having children; etc.. But now that I have found all of the things I have been looking for, now that I have found peace from those peripheral distractions, now that I am happily married, have had the same job for almost five years, own a beautiful home and have a “stable” life, I am still left with ME.

Over the last few years I’ve known five people who have lost a significant amount of weight. Their weight-loss has been astonishing; the transformation in their LIVES has been inspiring. Four of them have had weight-loss surgery and one, my dear friend was able to do it with Weight Watchers (because she’s awesome, that buggar!) Her drive, patience and determination are to be admired.

Gastric by-pass has been mentioned to me several times over the last couple of years-by one doctor, and a few friends who have seen the lack of success I’ve had with “diets”, but I dismissed it because I was so baby crazy and felt that my biological clock was ticking. I would say, “If I decide today that I want the surgery, it will be six months before I can have it, then another year, minimum, before I can get pregnant.” That would put me at 33, 34, 35, depending on how old I was at the time of the conversation, which in my opinion at the time was, too old.

Eh.

Well, now that I’m ALMOST 34, I’m still fat and still don’t have a baby (which, if you read my last blog, you know I’m TOTALLY ok with now) --I have NO excuses! So this blog will now shift to my current journey- getting rid of this shit that has in-truth been what has consumed me since 1984 when Cara, one of my fellow Brownies (Girl Scouts) came to school and told my class that I had popped her waterbed at her birthday party the previous weekend—that was also the day I found my sense of humor.

***

On May 26th, I went to the mandatory informational seminar which ended up providing a wealth of information and made me feel confident that Gastric Bypass is the right choice for me. I had my first consultation with the surgeon on June 3rd and started the three month insurance-mandated doctor-supervised weight loss program on July 14th. So far I have met with the fitness person, started daily injections of some kind of medication to help suppress my appetite (which seems to be working, yay!) and did an in-home sleep study on Tuesday. On the 6th I will hopefully go for my psych eval (providing the psychologist comes back from medical leave before then), the 11th I will go for an endoscopy and on the 15th, I will have my second-month doctor visit as well as a bone density and metabolism test- LOTS OF HOOPS! From that point on, it should be pretty easy sailing, just two more doctor visits and a couple of appointments with the dietician. I’m hoping to have everything completed by my last doctor visit on 10/17 at which time, providing everything goes smoothly, they will send off the paperwork to get the authorization for surgery.
If all goes according to MY plan, 2011 will make my 27th year of being fat, my last. A lot of boxes need to be checked between now and the middle of October, Aetna needs to be on the ball with the approval and my surgeon has to be willing to operate around the holiday season, but HOPEFULLY, 2012 will be the first time I’ve EVER accomplished that New Year’s resolution: LOSE WEIGHT! And start living the life I was meant to live, not the BIG, FAT lie that has become my life.

The Rest of the Story

So, most of you know that the kids went back to live with their mom more than a month ago. But what I haven’t shared yet, at least publically (er...semi-publically… okay, to those very few of you who read my blog) what really happened.
I have hemmed and hawed over writing this blog for several weeks now but I have to get it out. I want to be able to fall asleep at a decent hour tonight, without the perpetuating blog-monologue running through my brain.

Throughout the five months that the kids were with us I shared-- a lot. I shared lots of good stuff and some not so good stuff but I kept a lot of to myself. Not knowing how long the kids were going to be with us and knowing that some of their classmate’s parents are friends of mine, I felt like it wasn’t fair to share some of the real stuff we were dealing with. It was very important to me that no one passed judgment on them, that no one had any preconceived notions or anticipated any potential issues that would most likely never affect them directly. I wanted the kids to be accepted and given a fair chance; they deserved that. There were already many other preconceptions about them that people naturally assumed, they certainly didn’t need any more.

But as the foster-mom, I need to expel the stress and anxiety that I have experienced over these last several months. This is not me crying for attention or begging for praise, this is just my story. The story of what really happened…The rest of the story.

***

Just after my last blog, the one where I talked about the little one being removed for the night, things got remarkably better. Visits with the Grandparents were ceased and life was a lot easier. We had about three weeks of “great”! but at about the fourth week, things started to spiral out of control. The kids went a couple of weeks without seeing their mom due to communication problems and the little one being the most sensitive just kind of lost it. We had several days in a row that were difficult but not impossible-- there was definitely a shift in the little one’s behavior. We’d seen this shift before, but were able to manage our way through it, even though each new cycle was significantly more difficult than the last.

We should have known that this next one was going to be even worse, but it didn’t occur to me until it actually was.

It started with the cussing…AGAIN which led to time outs, which led to tantrums, which led to physical altercations which led to longer time outs and more hitting and door slamming and wall kicking and whatever-he-could-get-his-hands-on breaking, and spitting in my face and calling me names. The tantrums would eventually stop but as soon as he was done he’d immediately start looking for something to do to get in trouble. It was almost scary, the look in his eye as he walked around the house looking for something, anything to touch that he wasn’t supposed to- another child’s toy, our cell phones, fragile items, computers, ANYTHING, just to be told, “No!”.
We were careful about picking our battles, tried VERY HARD to use positive reinforcement as well as other tactics. We made excuses; taking into consideration everything that he had been dealt up to this point but there was only so much that we could do.

The beginning of the end happened on Saturday, April 30th. We had gone to the pool with some friends and the little one was benched for peeing on the floor (on purpose) at a public restroom earlier that day. I had made a deal with him, I told him that he could not swim that day as a consequence for his actions, but if he sat on the bench and made good choices, he could play angry birds on my phone while we swam. He agreed to those terms and when we got to the pool he sat down and followed directions- I gave him my phone and got in the pool with the other kids. I will never know if that was the right decision- I felt justified at the time and I have no regrets.

He was fine for about 20 minutes. He’d look up from the phone every once-in-a-while to see what we were doing and of course I glanced over at him twice as often. But then, as I was standing at the wall of the pool, holding onto the edge talking to someone else who was standing to my right, he walked over and stomped down on my chest as hard as he could. I heard the thump before I felt the pain and when I looked up he was running back to the bench. There were about 15 people sitting in the hot tub nearby and in unison everyone gasped. It was shocking to say the least. Brett and I immediately got out of the pool, dried off and gathered our belongings. Our friends who were with us (as part of this preplanned family outing) offered to stay with the other two while we took the little one back to the house and got him situated.

When we got to the house, he immediately ran from us, began throwing things, trying to break whatever he could. Brett finally got him in his room and tried to calm him down but he was unrelenting for almost 45 minutes. The pool was about to close and one of us had to go get the other two, so I left and Brett stayed home. He called our agency and told them what was going on. He asked that someone come to the house to help us as the child needed to be restrained but we were not licensed to do so. (I know the word restrain sounds harsh, but that’s what it’s called and it’s used to get a child who is completely out of control to calm down- it’s not like a straight jacket, just a bear hug to keep the child and others around safe) But apparently our agency didn’t feel that we needed them so they just told Brett not to be alone with him and “don’t agitate him”.

WHAT?!?! For real?!?! They are supposed to be there to SUPPORT us! To SUPPORT the children! The children are technically THEIR responsibility. I have no doubt that if the same call was made during normal business hours that someone would have been there immediately. But I’m guessing that since this was a Saturday evening, on a holiday weekend, it wasn’t the most convenient time.

(Needless to say, we will not be working with that agency EVER again.)
As the week progressed the behaviors escalated. Both Brett and I were being physically assaulted at least twice a day. By Wednesday I had bruises on my arms, scratch marks on my wrists, I’d had several things thrown at (and hit) my face, my hair pulled, I’d been spat on and called a bitch. Our house had turned into a crisis zone. And even though I held him when he was calm and praised him when he was good, it got to the point where it was dangerous; dangerous for us and him. All we could do was defend ourselves and I was so worried that I would hurt him in the process.

Our plan was to start therapeutic training the following week so that if he had been “leveled up”, to a therapeutic home, he could stay with us. But next week seemed so far away, it would be six weeks after that before we’d be finished with the training-- It became too much. Between not feeling safe in our house and the lack of support from our agency as well as the mental, physical and emotional exhaustion, I just couldn’t do it anymore. So I made the call, well actually it was an email, but I did it- I asked that he be exited from our home.

Even now, sitting here, writing this blog, two months after it went down, I’m still moved to tears. No matter how hard it was, not matter how bad he hurt me or what he broke or how difficult he was, I still loved him and the thought of him leaving was heartbreaking. How were we going to tell him? Who was he going to stay with? This is what people talk about when it comes to foster kids- kids bouncing from foster home to foster home. I was now part of the problem and no longer the solution. I was letting him down. I was sad; very, very sad. I still am.

It was Thursday evening, the night before Brett and I were to leave for the beach- our much needed respite weekend, and I wrote to the social worker:

“Please accept this email as our request for long-term removal of TG from our home. We have been physically assaulted multiple times each day, every day since Saturday April 30th. He has become a danger to us and we feel we are at risk of becoming a danger to him as we do not know how to handle his behavior except to defend ourselves. We have not and would not physically discipline him, however we fear that since we do not have proper training, we may inadvertently hurt him trying to defend ourselves.

TG is going to respite care this weekend and will most likely be okay in that home for a few days, however, it is my opinion that he needs to be in a therapeutic home or a home where he is the only child for now. We may reconsider taking him back into our home if/when we feel prepared to do so after completing therapeutic training and once he is being treated for and/or in better control of the issues he is facing.

This situation is very upsetting and disappointing. I can't help but feel that perhaps this could have been avoided had there been a more efficient response from DSS and NCH with regards to effective therapy, quicker assessments and more support.

We expect him to be removed no later than Friday, May 20th.

Thank you,

Brett and Andrea”

***

This was Thursday, May 12th at 5:30pm. It was after-hours, I knew it would be the next day before I got a response, all I could do was wait.

The rest of the evening we pretended like everything was okay. In fact, we pretended like everything was okay for the next SEVEN days! It felt like and eternity and yet, I didn’t want that day to come.

It wasn’t until the 11th hour, almost literally, before we finally got word on where he was going. The plan all along, ever since they came to stay with us was for them to eventually live with their mom. We didn’t know how long that would be, but she had been working hard to get things ready for them. Since the kids weren’t taken from her, since none of the charges were against her, there was really no reason to keep them from her except that the social worker wanted her to prove that she really wanted them which she did-- she got a house and a car and met all of her other requirements, she was the best candidate for placement.

When this decision was made, I felt relieved. I could handle telling them that ALL THREE of them were going to live with their mom, even if the little one was going first. (To give us the break and warm her up to being a full-time parent) That’s what it’s all about anyway, reunification. They were going to be reunified with their mom. We had done our job. We had prepared three children to be reunited with their family and even though it happened sooner (due to extreme circumstances) than we had expected, we had done it!

The problem was that the plan wasn’t decided until THURSDAY afternoon. We didn’t want to stress the kids out until we knew exactly what the plan was, so for seven days, we had to act like nothing was going on.

Thursday afternoon (May 19th) we sat the kids down and told them the plan: We have some exciting news! Your mom has been doing a really good job getting ready for your guys to come live with her and she is really looking forward to being together. So we talked to the social worker today and T is going to go stay with your mom starting tomorrow and then you guys (K and K) will be going the day after school gets out for the summer!

We tried to make it a positive thing. We wanted them to feel good about the transition. We thought that they would be excited, but they weren’t. The little one immediately started crying, saying he didn’t want to leave. The middle one was stressed because he was worried that his mom was going to let the little one play with his video games and that he would break them and the oldest one was concerned about leaving her friends and not going to the beach.

Looking back, I realize that we shouldn’t have been surprised by these reactions, but I don’t know, it was so weird at the time.

That night we let the little one pick what he wanted for dinner, he chose CiCi’s Pizza. We ate, came home, did our normal evening routine, and I tucked him in for the last time. That sucked ass.

Earlier that week, I think it was Wednesday, in all the stress of the situation, I got one last chance to just hold him. It was about 10pm, over an hour after they’d gone to bed-- Brett and I were sitting on the couch watching TV and he came stumbling into the living room, mostly asleep, and crawled into my lap. I just sat there and held him, and cried, hard. I cried a lot that week, when no one was looking and I was so grateful that I got to cry while holding him, without him ever knowing.

God, I’m crying now. A lot.

That kid had (has) a very special place in my heart. All three of them did, do and always will. They are precious, precious children.

I know that we made an impact on their lives; we showed them other possibilities, gave them the opportunity to learn and grow and to be loved whole heartily. I feel good about what we did and I’m glad we did it. I have no regrets. They will forever be a part of my life and will always be in my heart.

I am so blessed to have had the chance to love them. So, so blessed.

The details of the next day are too painful to recap. Even though I was dropping him off with his mom, it hurt- BAD.
I cried several times over the next few days but tried to stay positive for the older two.

The following three weeks were like night and day compared to the weeks, months leading up to them. Having just the two was effortless. They still gave us a hard time, were mouthy and didn’t always follow directions, but they were like different children.

While all three were with us, I NEVER got a free moment unless they were sleeping or I was out- alone. I know kids require a lot of attention, but this was constant and beyond normal. Neither Brett nor I realized until the little one was gone just how much all three of them constantly fought for my attention- I mean constantly. The therapist had pointed it out, but it had become my normal so it didn’t occur to me that it was actually happening. I just knew that I heard “Andreeea” about 75 times per hour- and I don’t think that’s an exaggeration. Ask Brett!

But when the little one left- a calm came over the house; the older two suddenly became independent and were able to occupy and entertain themselves, sometimes together, sometimes separately. I could actually go an hour maybe longer without hearing my name even once.

It was strange how the entire dynamic of our home changed, literally overnight.

Two nights before their last day with us the middle one chose McDonald’s for dinner and the last night, the oldest one chose Church’s Chicken. The last day school came, they said goodbye to their friends, came home and packed up their clothes and toys. That night, I tucked them in for the last time and the next morning I took them to their mom.

I’ve talked to them a few times since that day. They don’t have very good cell service where they live so talking on the phone is difficult, couple that with their limited communication skills and it’s VERY difficult to have a conversation. I am trying to stay in touch and hope to do so forever but I’m hoping that as quickly as we became a family, they are now doing the same now, only better, with their real family. So I am giving them some space, reminding myself daily that I did my job and letting them move on.

***

People often ask me if I miss them- This is a tricky question. I miss loving them. I miss seeing them. I miss the good times. But it was an INTENSE five months and there are a LOT of things that I don’t miss; the constant stress, for one.

If you follow me on Facebook, then you know how much we accomplished and I will forever treasure those accomplishments, but those accomplishments were pepper flakes compared to the daily challenges we faced and now that it’s all over, contrary to the end of many relationships- only remembering the good stuff, I mostly remember the bad. In fact, it’s not so much remembering as it is, just now recognizing just how hard it was. I spent five months trying to be positive, trying to make things good, trying to create an image for them and those who were part of their lives, that I rarely even admitted to just how bad it was.

***

And now the rest of the rest of the story…

I don’t know if we’ll ever do it again.

The truth is that we learned from them as much if not more than they learned from us. Having kids is hard- duh! Everyone knows that. But you don’t realize until you have three children who depend on you for everything to see that this may not be what you want forever, at least not for us.

I realize that we had a tough case. Trust me, EVERYONE told us that, constantly. Even the in-home therapist would come to the house every Monday, and say, “I don’t know how you guys do it. I gotta go home and drink!” Yeah, I know, she was high quality. Ha! But we did have an extreme case. One that burnt us out, big time! However, that’s not the main reason we are second guessing our want/need to have children and a “family”. We realized just what a sacrifice it is to have children and we’re not sure we want to make those sacrifices forever.

About two weeks into being full-fledged foster parents I realized, there are no guarantees. Whether you adopt older kids, babies or even have your own, there is no guarantee that you will not be bailing them out of jail when they’re 17 or giving them rent money when they’re 23 or visiting them in rehab when they’re 30. And to be quite honest, I don’t think that’s a risk that I actually want to take. I want to travel and see the world. I want to experience different cultures and lifestyles. Being a parent is one of those… which I can now check off my list.

I’m suddenly aware of my life and all that I want to accomplish- being a parent for the rest of that time isn’t on that list. Maybe for parts of it over the next ten years or so, as a foster parent, but at this point I have no desire to get pregnant, give birth or adopt. It sounds terrible when I say it out loud and even worse when I read it in type, but it’s true.

I have a whole new appreciation for parents and the forever-sacrifices they make. You are a special breed. (Breeders) And I applaud you! It takes some serious commitment and GUTS!

***

I realize of course that this could all change, and future blog title could be something to the effect of “Eating My Words”.