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”.

Recent Goings On

So as you know, things were going really well…and remember what I said about “jinxing” things.  Yeah, well—dot, dot, dot!

I don’t REALLY believe in the power of “jinx” but my life does have a habit of kicking my ass just when I’m feeling good about things.  I don’t mean this to sound pitiful.  It’s just part of life.  The best times come from getting through the tough ones. 

Three days after I wrote this blog things started going downhill.  Slowly, then crash, BOOM! 

Part of fostering is something called “shared parenting”. 

The idea behind “shared parenting” (spoken in a sweet fairy godmother-type voice) is to help the families build their relationship in an effort to prepare them for reunification. 

YEAH RIGHT!!! 

Shared parenting can pretty much be defined as: taking the kids that you love to weekly emotional torture sessions, resulting in mental turmoil that wreaks havoc on your day-to-day lives for a minimum of five days following said visit.  It is a TEST to see of the parents have got their shit together and a complete mind-#@&% for the kids. 

Our situation is especially fun because we are dealing with grandparents (who the kids lived with all their lives) and the mother who has been…around most of their lives.  The mother and the grandmother do not get along, so we have to have separate visits with each of them every week. 

Back when I said that things had gotten better, we seemed to have a handle of visits.  The kids have always responded well to visits with “mom” (I say “mom” because they don’t identify her as their mother) this is most likely because they are used to seeing her every-once-in-a-while, but visits with grandmother on the other hand result in complete turmoil for several days unless they are CLOSLEY supervised. 

So, like I was saying, things were going well.   Visits with mom were going smoothly and visits with Grandma were tightly watched.  This is until 3/23!  The visit was at a park instead of DSS or McDonalds.  She had lots of time to fill their little heads with whatever garbage she wanted.  The two older ones tend to blow her off, guess they’re somewhat used to her behavior, but the little one…not so much. 

This was the Wednesday before the Friday that we left for the beach. 

Come Friday we noticed that the little one seemed very withdrawn.  He suddenly detached from us- like overnight.  He had gone from being my “snuggle bunny” with hugs for no reason followed by “I love yous” to nothing.  It was like someone had told him that we didn’t love him and he shut us out. 

WE WERE AT THE BEACH FOR CRYING OUT LOUD and he could barely smile unless he was REALLY distracted by something.  It was pitiful.

The following week we had another loosely supervised visit which ended in her telling him IN FRONT OF ME (I’m sure to show me how wonderful she is) that JESUS told her that he was being bad.

WTF?!?!?!?!?!  JESUS?!?!?!?  HER?!?!?!?  Un-mother-effing-believable!

We were in the mall food court and he ran from her and hid in the restroom.  I was speechless.  All I could say was, “He’s a good boy. He’s doing really well.”  And she told me that she knew it needed to be said, she’s a little “witchy” and can sense these things.  She “raised him better than this” and she “doesn’t know where he gets this behavior”.

I wanted punch her in the face.

That night, unsurprisingly, things got worse.  He became exceptionally defiant and was trying to do and say anything he could to hurt our feelings and make us mad. 

We had court the next day, she came up and apologized to me.  I told her that we didn’t believe in recognizing bad behavior for no reason and reiterated that he was doing very, very well. 

BLOOD BOILING!!!

Friday the kids went to respite care.  Brett and I needed a break.  They had a really great time and asked if they could go back again soon.  This made me feel good.  Next time I don’t have to feel guilty sending them off for the weekend.

Sunday night was a little rough, but we got through it.  The little one was back to being defiant, but it wasn’t anything we couldn’t handle.  He was still trying to be mean, but we have thick skin.  Monday however was a completely different scenario.  Monday he lost his shit. 

The meltdown started about about 3:45, but 4:15 when the therapist got there for her scheduled visit, he was a gonner.  Completely irrational, couldn’t calm down, was--- I don’t know, just gone. 

She spent two hours trying to calm him down and nothing worked.  She recommended that we call the on-call social worker to be on stand-by in case he needed to leave our home.  She was.  He did.

I can’t even begin to tell you how painful it is to have a social worker come to you home at 7pm and take your (foster) child away, kicking and screaming “I don’t want to leave”.  Brett had to physically carry him.  All I could do is…nothing.  Oh my god, no words.

The plan was for us to pick him up the next morning.  It was explained to him that he just needed a break so he could calm down and get a good night’s rest.  I don’t think he believed us.

The respite family (mom) who had him that night called me shortly after he had fallen asleep.  She said that had wanted to call to talk to me but he’d fallen asleep before she was able to call.  He was exhausted. 

The next morning I picked him up and took him to school.  The first thing he said to me when we got in the car was, “I hate you guys”. 

That’s understandable. 

I said, “Well we love you very much and we’re so glad that you’re coming home today.  We missed you a lot, we just wanted you to come here for the night so you could calm down and get some rest.”

“I still hate you”

“Did you sleep good last night?”

“Yes”

“Do you feel better today?”

“Yes”

“Good!”

“Now lets back into that gold Saturn parked behind us”

Okay, that last part didn’t really happen.  Well actually it did, but I didn’t say it and it wasn’t on purpose.  Oops! 

Turns out it was a nice ice breaker though AND a good teaching moment.  I told him that I had to take responsibility for my mistake and went and knocked on the neighbor’s door to tell them what had happened.  I gave her my contact information and explained to him that I was now going to have to pay them money to fix there car since I broke it. 

I think he got it.  Hopefully.

Tuesday night wasn’t TOO bad and Wednesday night was pretty bad. 

Today we had a long conversation with the social worker about what needs to happen and the general consensus is (was) to have him “exited from our home”. 

I know in my heart that there is only so much I can do.  I realize that he may be more than we can handle, and that we may not be the right type of foster home for him, he may need to be placed in a therapeutic home.  I get it, but, but, but…

Brett reminded me that sometimes we have to remember that this is a job and that I can’t get too attached I told him that I knew that.  Again, I get it.  But this is different.  This isn’t about me being attached to him, this is about the BOND that we HAD. 

The social worker mentioned a possible diagnosis of Reactive Attachment Disorder (read about it, just a few sentences, it SUCKS and it completely unavoidable but almost always unchangable).  if this is in fact what he has, there is very little hope for him.  I realize that I can’t fix every child that comes through my door, but I certainly don’t want to be PART of the problem. 

I’m not sure what will happen from here.  I am happy to report that despite some bucking this morning, this afternoon we seemed to have the “old snugglebunny” back.  Not sure, how or why.  Although I’d like to think that it’s because he remembered that he is safe and loved in our home,  I know deep down (or not so deep) that there is an extreme possibility that no matter how much we love him, no matter what we do to tell him, no matter the ways we show him, he may never be able to understand what it is to be loved or how TO love, truly. 

Seven years old. 

Update, because it’s been a while.

I hesitate to write this blog because I worry about jinxing things.  Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s true. 

Although every day is still a challenge, as I’m guessing it is in most families, we are certainly seeing huge improvements.  We are absolutely amazed at these kids and how well they are doing with daily activities.  We are perhaps even more amazed at ourselves with how well WE are doing. 

One month ago we were averaging 3-4 times outs per day with each of the boys.  That’s 6-8 total—EXHAUSTING!  These last two weeks we’ve averaged about 3-4 PER WEEK! 

The cussing has decrease significantly, which let me tell you, is SUCH a huge relief.  It still happens a couple of times per day, sometimes accidentally, some times on purpose, but 95% of the time it stops with a simple warning. 

For a while there it was CONSTANT.  Pretty much, if the boys were awake and not eating, they were cussing.  Not cussing AT us, just cussing and/or fake cussing.  What is fake cussing you ask?  Let me give you an example:

“cockcockcockcaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhck,cockcockcockcahhhhhhhhhhhhk” 

“cut it out, now”

“what?  I wasn’t saying a cuss!”  I was saying ‘cock’, like a bird”

“I don’t want to hear it.  Say it again and you’re going to time out”

seconds later

“crashit, crash it, cra shit”

“time out now!”

“I didn’t say a cuss!” 

“Go- now…now!”

“I hate you! You’re mean!  Meanie, meanie, meanie!”  (and on and on for several minutes, while throwing pillows off the time out couch")

UGH!!!

But now, like I said, the cussing is minimal and I’m also happy to report that time out is bearable.  Well, mostly bearable.  Better anyway.

Their communication skills have improved drastically and they are now able to speak real sentences, even paragraphs, which keeps their minds and mouth from wandering aimlessly to curse words. 

School!  Oh my gosh!  I am sooooooooooo proud of them!  They are doing insanely well in school.  The (now 11 year old) girl is making friends- three of them even came to her birthday party on Saturday.  She wants me to do her hair every morning and she is taking pride in was she wears to school.  She is learning to read and can do double digit math problems!  She is learning to count money and is getting the basics of multiplication. 

She is so smart and insanely athletic but man can she cop an attitude!  Woooh!  I mean seriously.  Ah, the pre-teen years. –I’m too young for this!  HA!

Emotionally, she is quite closed off but she has recently started laughing, like real belly laughs.  Like the boys she really only has two emotions:  happy and angry.  But she and I have really bonded the past few weeks and when I tuck her in at night she always gives me a hug and tells me she loves me.  *melt”

The nine year old boy is growing too, although, a little slower than the others.  He is figuring out that letters make sounds and that those sounds make words.  He gets so proud of himself when he can figure out how to spell things and his big huge smile just warms my heart.  He talks non-stop now.  NON-STOP!  Mostly about random stuff, but he’s talking.  AND chewing with his mouth closed.  THIS IS HUGE!  He gets frustrated really easily but  with a lot of encouragement he is find ways to complete tasks without just giving up. 

The little one, 7, is growing by leaps and bounds.  He has gotten 100% on his last three spelling tests and read almost an entire picture book to me last week.  I thought I was going to cry. 

My GOD he is cute and he knows how to work it. I have to remind myself to stand firm and not get sucked in by it.

The last few days he has been driving me CRAZY!  Getting into things he KNOWS he should be in to.  On Saturday, he took all of the food color that I had on the counter (I was making frosting for K’s b-day cake) without me seeing him.  He took it outside and squirted it ALL OVER the front walk-way.  I didn’t realize this until I went to clean up and noticed that they were all empty.  There were on the counter, where I had left them, but the BRAND NEW bottles were completely EMPTY!  I called him into the kitchen and flat out asked him if he had been playing with them.  He immediately apologized (in his cute little way) and I had to pinch myself to keep from getting sucked in.  I, of course, scolded him then made him write “I will not touch other people’s belongings” 10 times.  --Throughout the day he had also been caught with Brett’s watch, his sister’s RC helicopter AND the OLD food coloring, for which he had already gotten in trouble for that morning.  When he was done writing his sentences, I presented him with a bucket and a toothbrush and made him scrub  the (now kinda cool, but I won’t tell him that, tie dyed) sidewalk. UGH!!  We talked about the incident and he promised he wouldn’t touch other people’s stuff.  Well, at least not until Sunday when he was caught playing with my phone, Brett’s handheld GPS, my sunglasses and then this morning my keys as he was trying to break-in to the storage room to try to find god-knows-what!!!  UGH! 

Did I mention how cute he is?  Precocious, but cute.

***

So a part of the fostering stuff that you don’t really learn about in the classes is all the business/legal stuff.  Court dates, family visits, meetings with Guardian ad litems, therapists, social workers, etc., etc., etc.  This is truly a full-time job and can be quite stressful on us and the kids.  Understandably so.

We try to keep things as “normal” as possible and for the most part we operate just like normal family.  A “normal family” that has visits with “real” (birth) family twice a week and other extraneous people several times a month. 

We seem to have a good system in place, with lots of routine during the weekdays.  Weekends, which we all want to look forward to are often the most stressful because of the lack of routine and structure.  We are finding that when the kids have too much free-time all hell breaks loose so we are working to find a balance, it’s definitely getting better.

I’m just so proud of them and perhaps even more proud of us.  Brett and I both feel like we definitely made the right choice to become foster parents.  We constantly talk about just how lucky we are and how good it feels to KNOW that what we are doing is important, impactful and completely fulfilling.

Although I may never know what it’s like to be pregnant or nurse and infant, I certainly know what it’s like to be a mom…and I love it!