Um, Mom? Can you spray the bear?

A simple request from a newly christened 8 yr old boy.  Can I spray the bear.  Maybe I should explain. 

Early this week, he had a visit.  Yep, one of those…a birth parent visit.  I hate them.  Really, I do.  I admit it.  I try not to; I try to put on the brave face, and the encouraging words, and send him on his way knowing he’s not doing a thing wrong.  But when he returns with “stuff”…I just loose it.  This time, it was a teddy bear, a tent for the bear, another old bear, and bedding accessories in a theme more suited to a 4 or 5 yr old than an 8 yr old.  Oh, and lest I forget, the early Easter basket.

The big problem I have with this stuff is that most of it stinks.  I mean really stinks.  We don’t smoke, they do.  So all this stuff just really smells bad.  Enough to make me gag.  And so, in my very unpleasant manner I take the stinky stuff from him as he excitedly tells me of all the wonderful presents he has just received and I promptly put them as far away as I can.  He is disappointed, I am disgusted and the whole thing just gets tangled in a mess.

I’m supposed to be the grown up…the normal one.  The one who knows how to deal with adversity, the one who is stable.  But in times like these, I guess I respond as the spoiled child.  I don’t want him to come home with gifts.  I just want him to come home.  I want him to never to want to go for a visit again.  I want him to come home and say “can you just get rid of this stuff for me?  I really don’t want it.”  But that’s not likely to happen.

He’s 8.  He’s torn between two families.  It’s not fair for me to put this on him.  I know that.  And so, last night after we had a talk about some other things that were bothering him, I kissed him on his head and said good night.  As I left his room, he said, “Um, Mom?  Can you spray the bear?”  I knew what he meant.  He was asking me to spray the bear with Febreeze so that it would become tolerable to me and the rest of the house…so that the bear could now become something he could play with, hug, snuggle and enjoy.

This morning, I pulled out the Febreeze and sprayed the bear, and the tent, and the other bear.  The bedding has been washed.  I’m trying.

The Face of disAbility

He tries so hard to fit in.  Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn’t.  He can’t understand why the other children don’t want to play with him.  He only wants to play with them.  He doesn’t understand a lot of things.  He doesn’t understand why it’s a problem to carve with a stone into a piece of furniture.  He doesn’t understand why everyone has to make so much noise on the bus.  He doesn’t understand why no one believes him when he KNOWS he’s right…even when he really isn’t.  He can’t seem to figure out why he’s not as in charge as the grownups.  And he just doesn’t know why he can’t keep his emotions in control when the other kids are teasing him.  “I feel like sometimes I’m a bomb and I’m going to explode.”

This is what it is to have a disAbility.  This is what it is to have brain damage.  No one can see it.  And until you have had time with him, you might not know it.  There isn’t a sign to wear.  He has no visible evidence of the damaged brain within his head.  And it’s not his fault.  He wants to be like all the other kids.  He doesn’t want to over react to simple situations.  He doesn’t want to be the one on the outside.  And yet so many people, children and parents alike, make their own assumptions.  Worse yet, some of those parents pass that on to their children who then in turn treat him unkindly.  Because he doesn’t “wear” his disability like some other disabilities, he is often just labeled a problem.  Neighbors don’t want their children to play with him.  Teachers don’t know what to do with him, and we his parents spend countless nights praying over him, crying for him, exasperated, not knowing what to do.

With his blond hair tousled on his head, and a twinkle in his eye, he bounces off to get ready for bed.  As he climbs under the blankets of his bed and his eyes close,  so do the events of the day.  Each day begins as if the previous one never happened.  It’s not that he doesn’t remember the day, it’s just that it’s filed away now, and unless there is a need to remember a detail it isn’t ever thought of again.  It’s just that simple.  And why shouldn’t it be?

Each of us is made differently.  Wrapped up in this ugly wrapping paper called disability is a beautiful, engaging, smart, funny, very loving boy.  A boy who just wants a chance in life.

Tears

My heart is cracked.  I don’t want it to be broken again but there is a chance that could happen it has happened again.  On the outside, to everyone else, I know the right words, I appear strong and able.  In the quiet moments with myself I cry, I weep.  No one but God knows the agony in my heart.

Knowing that He knows the plan is not always enough.  I trust that He will protect me and be with me in my moments of need but still I am empty inside, longing for what I don’t have, sorrowful for what has been lost.  I rejoice in what I have.  I love what He has done for me, and who He has put in my life and yet….the tears fall into pools of self doubt and self pity; neither of which are from Him.

Somewhere there is a cry left unheard, a need left unmet.  I pray God will lead me to the cry, to the need.  That through Him and in His timing my cry too will be heard, and my need met.

Testing, testing; one, two, three…

There is a great test going on here right now; my husband and I are going to need a lot of support.

My job is officially ending on Dec. 29th.  I got word yesterday.  Now, I’ve known about it for a while but I really didn’t address it because I hoped that somehow the company would come to their senses and realize that letting go 40% of the workforce at the end of the year was not a good idea.  So much for that idea.

I’ve been looking…but not seriously…for another job.  Now I need to really look.  But there is another story here as well.  We are hopefully going to be fostering a new born…an early born.  Through our extended church family, we learned of a pregnant birth mother who’s older children are in foster care already.  The state would like the siblings to have contact but the other foster family just can’t take on a newborn.  Enter us into the picture.  We are ready and willing.  Enter the challange:  the baby was born 13 weeks early.  He weighed under 2 lbs at birth.  We don’t know if there will be any other issues.  We do know that if he survives, he will be placed with us.

How, then, do I look for a job knowing that this little tiny guy will be coming here and needing more than just a few hours a day of my time?

I’m trusting that God has his hand on all of this and that he will work it out for us.  I’m trusting that the money we need will be found.  I’m trusting that…..well…I’m trusting.