Part 4 - Lee Family: Our Birth - Foster - Adoptive Journey to 20 Children: Part 4

(This is Part 4 of our story.  If you missed Parts 1-3, you might want to start at the beginning!)

The Almost Middle of the Beginning – The First Children

We got pregnant on our honeymoon and I gave birth to our oldest biological daughter Rebecca almost exactly nine months later.  (And no, we weren’t pregnant when we eloped, although it wasn’t technically impossible if you know what I mean!)  We must have been quite the fertile couple because two more girls quickly followed.  When our third daughter Amy was born, Rebecca was 2-years-old and Kathryn was still only one. 

Because of Fini - my special needs sister that my parents adopted when they were about 50 - my husband knew a little about fostering and adopting kids.  It was part of my everyday conversation.  But he had no interest whatsoever.  He wouldn’t even talk about it.  He just listened to me talk about the possibilities for us as a couple.  It was my passion – but not yet his.

I was still practicing law and my husband was a Certified Public Accountant.  Life was busy and full to say the least. But we adored our children and made our careers fit around raising our girls.

When the girls were 2, 3 and 4, my husband and I went on an overnight camping trip for our anniversary.  At that point, two of our three children were conceived during the same week - so we often joked about not taking any more trips for our anniversary unless we wanted another child!  That year, my husband had a vasectomy, so we thought we were safe.  Little did we know.

While we were there, we saw a group of girls playing at the lake.  A very outgoing, talkative girl from the group named Nikki approached my husband and insisted that she knew him from somewhere.  He had no idea who she was and although he’s not the most talkative man around, he engaged her in lively conversation.  

After she walked away, my husband became curious and asked the couple at a nearby table about the girls. He learned that the girls were on an outing with their group foster home.  The couple went on to explain that the girls lived in the group home, but some had respite homes where they could visit for weekends and holidays so they didn't have to stay at the group home all the time.  One of the girls, Gail, had not had a respite home in many years. 

My husband was intrigued.  He asked questions and found out how to become a respite foster home. It was surprisingly simple. Up to that point, he was convinced he could never love a child that wasn’t his own and he didn’t want to have anything to do with foster care or adoption. 

When we were alone, he asked me if these were the kind of kids I had been talking about.  I told him this was exactly what I meant. After five years, he changed his mind and I didn’t have to do anything!  I sat back and watched as Alan made phone calls, obtained the paperwork, arranged to have us fingerprinted and did all that was necessary for Gail to start visiting our house.

About six weeks later, she came for what was supposed to be a week- long visit – and stayed for almost 6 weeks!  We fell in love with her immediately.  Our relationship flourished and she began coming to our house every chance she got.

That was the beginning of our foster/adoptive journey as a couple.


Part 5 of the story continues with our journey to adopt Heather.  As some of you know, our spirited, troubled, smiling, talented daughter Heather joined our family on January 16, 1999.  She was killed in a car accident on January 16, 2011.  We miss her every day.

Part 3 - Lee Family: Our Birth - Foster - Adoptive Journey to 20 Children: Part 3

(This is Part 3 of our story. Our marriage.) 

Besides, I met my current husband while I was working at the large law firm....

My husband was an employee of my client.  We met after he avoided me for months.  I was representing the company where he worked as their controller (the money guy).  He hated attorneys and made it a point to be obnoxious to me when I called to try to set up an appointment to answer questions about an accident involving one of the company’s truck drivers, who no longer worked for the company. 

Finally, we reached a deadline and he could no longer put me off.  Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting to find love when we finally met to answer mundane questions about an accident he knew nothing about.

But, long story short:  After pulling an all-nighter to write an appeal brief to the Alabama Supreme Court, I arrived almost comatose in my $300 Ralph Lauren jacket and an expensive black designer skirt to my future husband’s office. In my defense, that was the 1980’s when I was a YUPpie (young urban professional) with plenty of money, lots of credit, good taste, and no other obligations except my house, my dog and two cats.  Apparently some of my philanthropic ideas and fears of being labeled rich weren’t that disturbing to me during this time. But as He always does, God used that period to teach me something about giving up my hard-earned money for something better.

Anyway, my future husband and I went through the pleasantries of introducing ourselves and I feigned interest in whatever I saw that allowed me to start a conversation so that we could get to the business of answering questions.  I don’t know at what point he knew he was going to marry me – but apparently he had that revelation during that initial meeting, because he told his father about it within 3 weeks of meeting me.   

Fortunately, he didn’t let me in on his crazy thoughts because I would have run the other way.  I was in love with someone else who had recently dumped me and I was waiting on him to come to his senses.  But God has a sense of humor and he knew the right man for me to marry.

On the way out the door I commented on a “Tide Pride” plaque hanging on his wall.  The legendary Auburn/Alabama Iron Bowl was scheduled for that weekend and my keen legal mind led me to believe he might be a Bama fan!  That was the opening he was looking for.  He mentioned that he had an extra ticket and wanted to know if I wanted to go with him. 

Floored and surprised, I actually had to call our office manager at the law firm to find out if it was okay for me to go to the game with a client.  Female attorneys were a relatively new breed in Alabama in the late 1980’s and I had no idea what was allowed.  Apparently, it was okay.  But I made it clear this was not a date.  Just a game.  And to be sure, I arranged for my best friend from college (who – coincidentally -- lived in Birmingham) to have “plans with me” for 6:00 p.m. so I would have an excuse to end the day early. 

So we went to the game and all I can remember is struggling to get up the long stairs at the stadium because I had just run 5 miles in the Turkey Trot race the morning before.  I was in excruciating pain and I didn’t want him to know because he was running 10 miles a day around that time and I didn’t want to look like a wimp!  I still had no romantic interest whatsoever.  But he had enough for both of us and was smart enough to remain low-key.  He was a nice guy and I felt like it was okay to cancel my 6:00 p.m. escape plan.  The rest is history. 

Oh, except for the fact that we lived together before we got married.  He had been married before too.  We were both technically Christians – but neither of us lived a life that allowed anyone to know that.  We didn’t consider ourselves living in sin.  Not many of my children know this fact.  It isn’t a secret, but it isn’t something we are proud to announce. Up to this point, we have told each of them on a need to know basis. 

We now think differently about the impact of our decision at that time!  But many of my adult children who claim to be Christians have fallen into the same trap of believing that there is no harm in living together before marriage.  We tell them our story and explain what we now understand.  But we also know that sometimes, our adult kids have to learn lessons directly from God.  I trust that God will use their situations for his good.

On June 3, 1989,  approximately 6 months after we first met – we eloped at sunset on a beautiful yacht in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico.  As I am making my way down the narrow isle from the stern to the bow with my father beside me, I had my first real experience with the God I now know.

I considered myself a Christian, but not one who lived my life any differently than anyone else in the world.  Except I was a really nice person who always put the needs of others above my own.  But anyone can do that. 

Anyway, as my father walked behind me - sideways down the edge of the boat, serious doubts crept into my mind.  I realized that I was about to marry a man that didn’t meet any of my pre-conceived ideas about who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.  He was just a really good guy that loved me and was willing to put up with my passionate, loud views about the world. 

As I’m shimmying down the foot-wide passage talking to my father and doubts racing through my head - I hear a voice in my head say very clearly, “Anna.  It’s okay.  This is the man you are supposed to marry.  Now go to him.” 

To date, it was the strangest moment of my life.  The entire ceremony, all I could do was try to make sense of that voice in my head.  Obviously, I said my vows and twenty-three years ago (TODAY AS A MATTER OF FACT), it’s pretty clear it was God and He was telling me to set-aside logic and my fears and marry a man that I barely knew and was not at all what I thought I needed.

There are many stories to tell about our marriage, but suffice it to say it has been a constant growth process as we both live and learn and love.  Having both been divorced, we were certain about one thing – we were committed to each other no matter what.  Frequently, we have had to rely on that commitment.  

Sometimes all I can say is, “We are committed until death do us part, and I’m thinking that death for one of us seems like a really good option right now!”  And I’m not just talking.  I seriously feel that way. 

I’m good at expressing my feelings. But sometimes, I should keep my feelings to myself.  

The reality is that sometimes the commitment is the only thing that holds our marriage together. If we depended on how we felt or how the other person acted, we would have had plenty of reasons to end it.

I know that I have been so unhappy at times that I felt like I would rather be alone – but since we both know that we must stay together, it limits our choices.  Either we live in misery, kill each other, or work it out.  Generally, we work it out. Although there was a period lasting almost a year when we were parenting 9 kids and could barely stand each other.

Early on in our foster/adoptive journey, we decided to make exactly the same commitment to the children that came into our home.  It is a ‘til death do us part” commitment that says you can’t act your way out of our house.  We try not to focus on the death part – but the commitment. We did this because we are fostering and adopting kids with dramatic pasts and with a lot of baggage and we know that they will try to act out and test the limits.  It isn’t personal – even though I must admit it feels like it many times.  They just wanted to see what they can get away with and for many – it is an intentional act to get sent away because they don’t want to form any long-term commitments. 

We have never heard of another family that has made this kind of commitment to their foster/adoptive children. It has been a hard promise to keep.  Sometimes it feels like it will destroy us.  Often, we have to let the children leave us for a time.  But we have always accepted them back – much like the prodigal son.  In fact, we have used that story to explain to the kids why we are willing to take them back, even when it is clear they have done nothing to deserve our unconditional commitment. But we have consistently kept our promise and we believe it has given some of our children the stability they need to settle in.  At some level we will never know the results of our choices, but we can be sure it is the right choice.  And that God would approve. 

I personally believe that God used our first failed marriages to teach us about the importance of commitment for our own marriage, and for the children that we had no idea would need that same kind of commitment. 

Twenty-three years ago today I was shopping for a wedding dress and waiting on my family to fly in a private plane down to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, to attend our surprise wedding.  With only 24 hours to plan our wedding, it was so freeing to have such a short time to make decisions.  And it was perfect. 

I’m an opinionated, passionate, dedicated, over-zealous, over-achieving woman with dreams.  My husband is a quiet, dedicated, patient, determined, humble man who has not followed my dreams – but pursued them with me.  It has been hard.  Very hard.  Marriage is not what I imagined as a child.  But it is good.  And I am happy and full-filled. And I have learned a whole new respect for “arranged marriages.”  Sometimes, our own ideas of the perfect spouse aren’t quite what we imagine either. 

Part 2 -Lee Family: Our Birth - Foster - Adoptive Journey to 20 Children

(This is Part 2 of the series telling our family story.  I am asked to tell some part of this story every day.  I have finally written it down. Part 3 will follow.)

Over the years, times changed. Open-adoptions began.  Foster parents began to have some contact with the adoptive and/or birth parents. The times were finally catching up with what we already understood.

We kept other medically fragile children, including Robert, who lived with us while awaiting his kidney transplant and Kristen, who died while waiting for hers.  Robert was a chubby little black baby.  This was the early-1980’s in Alabama.  Although race wasn’t a daily issue for us – I was surprised by the number of people who were offended by the fact that we were taking care of a black foster child.  This was after Timothy and so most of our friends expected the unexpected from our family.  This was just another crazy thing our family did.  Strangers weren’t always so understanding. 

The day Robert’s kidney became available, my mom was out shopping with Robert.  This was before cell phones.  We got the call from the transplant center and had only a matter of hours to find them and get Robert to the hospital.  We called all of the usual places she shopped – asking if there was “a white woman and a black baby” in the store.  At that time, it was a novelty.   But that novelty may have saved his life because we found her and he got his transplant.

Twenty-five years later, Robert is still an integral part of my parent’s lives and his mother is a close friend of the family.

And then there were the older kids.  We didn’t have many, but they were memorable.  While I was studying for the bar exam, my parents took in 6-year-old Lavar, who had been confined to the hospital for almost four years of his life.  He came with a tracheotomy, but he was as solid as a tank. He rammed into you so hard he could knock you over – and that was when he wanted a hug. 

My mom was good with the kind and gentle children, but she wasn’t naturally attracted to the rough and tough kids.  I was attracted to the 6-year old football player with an afro, who had to put his finger over his trach to eek out raspy words.  The boy who carried around an oxygen tank with a 100-foot cord so he could move and play.  That relationship worked out well for us. 

There always seemed to be at least one of us in the family who was perfectly suited for the personality of each child.  I was living with my grandmother only a few miles away, but I made it a point to have a relationship with Lavar and when he was hospitalized right before Christmas, I used my newly acquired legal skills and knowledge to fight for his right to visit his mom on Christmas Day.  I’m not sure what ridiculous things I surely said, but he got to go home for the day and I felt like I was following in my parents’ footsteps as an advocate for the best interest of the child – even when it didn’t match protocol, the rules, or what the world thought. That trait has come in handy over the years.

And no one can forget Fini.  She won’t let you.  She’s the star of every social event.  When she was born to poverty stricken parents in South Alabama, she had tetrology of fallott (three heart and lung defects).  She was in and out of hospitals for much of her first two years of life. 

She suffered from brain damage that left us uncertain about her future.  Never afraid of the challenge and always deeply committed – my parents hardly flinched.  After working with her parents for almost two-years to get her back home, Fini’s parents decided to allow my parents to adopt her.

Now my 23-year-old dark-skinned little sister – her simple mind and big heart have done more to change, inspire, and soften the heart of my father than any other person on earth.  She will always need my parents.  But the truth is – they need her too.

Yep. It must be gain, because I’m now 49-years-old and ultimately, not much has changed in my life. There were a few gap years in between the time I grew up as a foster sibling and the time my husband and I became foster/adoptive parents.  At first glance, it looks as though my life took me in a totally different direction from the one I lead now – but God knew what I needed to accomplish to be useful to Him!

Now bear with me for a moment because the next part of my story has a lot to do with my education and career choices, which can seem boring and unrelated. But looking back, I can now see that themes began to develop early in my life and that many of my seemingly unrelated decisions turned out to be key components of the big picture of my life.  In other words, they are important.

So, in between, I went to Samford University on a debate scholarship, hated it, and transferred to the University of North Carolina during the Michael Jordan Basketball Era. (Claim to fame: Michael and the rest of the basketball team were the “co-ed” part of my floor in our dorm). Being a classic overachiever, I earned two degrees in 3 ½ years: There was a B.A. in Speech Communications and a B.A. with Honors in Public Policy Analysis – with a specialization in Race Relations and Human Inequality.  I wrote my Honors Thesis on desegregation of campus housing at Carolina. It required me to go into the archives of the University and interview people who had been around for the 20 years since the school had become integrated.  I was an advocate for improving measures to desegregate campus housing.

Both my specialization and my thesis were influenced by the fact that my best friend in college happened to be an African-American male. This was the early 1980’s, but it was still considered taboo for me to be friends with a black man. I suppose growing up with black foster-siblings gave me a different view than most of my peers.

I say “happened to be” because circumstances brought us together – but color didn’t keep us apart. He was a Resident Director in the set of private off-campus dorms where I lived and I worked under him.  We had a lot in common and formed a lasting friendship almost immediately.  We talked openly about race relations.  He came from a large family and lived poor in a rural town where he wasn’t allowed into an integrated school until 5^th grade.

I grew up with extremely frugal parents on a limited income, but my dad made a living wage and also saved and paid cash for everything and as a result, I was afforded many opportunities.  My friend worked his rear off to make opportunities for himself. He was the first and only one on either side of his family to graduate college.   I worked hard too.  Both he and I valued honesty and hard work and diligence and neither of us was concerned by what others said about us.

We weren’t even dating – which would have been the ultimate sin – but people thought that we were. Some of my friends – male and female – openly disapproved based simply on the color of his skin. 

But I was my parent’s child.  And the fact that others criticized us made me even more determined to follow my heart and make my own decisions without regard to the world’s view of my life.

During this same time period, I met the man who was to become my first husband.  We met at a conference in Washington, D.C. and then I had an internship there.  We dated for about a year long-distance.  Me in North Carolina.  Him in Michigan. He was older than me and already in law school.  He swept me off my feet – or so I thought.  It was difficult to tell from a distance. We got engaged anyway.

I moved to Michigan and applied for law schools in the area.  He planned to run for political office.  Long story short, I had a serious automobile accident with a drunk driver 3 weeks before our wedding. Based on what happened during this crisis, I can look back and know that I had all the signs that this marriage couldn’t succeed.  It became apparent to me that he was an alcoholic and we didn’t share the same values, goals and dreams.  But I was only 20-years-old and I didn’t know how to stop a big wedding, nor was I sure that I was supposed to. 

Suffice it to say that it was a bad decision for both of us.  Our first anniversary was spent trying to decide whether we should stay married another year.  Ultimately, we were divorced when he told me that he didn’t love me and never had.  He had married me because he thought it would help his political  career.  I didn’t.

I was in my second year of law school when we finally divorced.  It was an emotional struggle for me.  I never thought I would marry and divorce.  It was my first true failure in life.

Ultimately, I kept pushing through – graduating from law school in the top 20% of my class and writing on to Law Review.  Writing turned out to be my strength.  It gave me many opportunities even my good grades didn’t.  Including a Clerkship with Justice Oscar W. Adams, the first African-American State Supreme Court Justice in the United States.  After an initial selection process, he chose his Clerk based on a writing competition.  He later told me I won it hands down and I spent the next year researching and writing opinions for the Alabama Supreme Court and learning from a man who was a key figure in the evolution of race relations in Alabama.   Race and writing became two strong’s themes in my life.  

The clerkship and writing skills led to a job in a large law firm with a great starting salary and countless working hours.  I was technically a trial attorney, but strongly preferred to write Appellate Briefs.  I handled much of the firm’s appellate work for the three years I worked at there. 

Later, my research and writing skills were the key to my ability to practice law and raise children at the same time.  You can write in the middle of the night!

Since law school, I’ve added a few more degrees and credentials – including a Masters in Education and training in Mediation and Christian Peacemaking - just because I love learning and love teaching what I know. 

But all my degrees are not the source of my self-worth and are fairly meaningless – except to me – because they show me how God was present through every step – even when it seemed I was following a completely different passion.  And all those degrees and relationships and experiences have come in handy over the years as I advocate for the children that I love and help kids both academically and emotionally.

Besides, I met my current husband while I was working at the large law firm. 

... and that part of the story coincidentally falls today - on our 23rd  Wedding Anniversary.  Part 3 - the marriage - will follow so look for it!

Part 1 - Lee Family: Our Birth - Foster - Adoptive Journey to 20 Children

I am asked to tell this story a few times every day.  The story I tell standing in the grocery line with 3 carts of groceries and a load of kids is far more abbreviated.  This is the full story, written for my children and for those who keep asking me to write it. In the interest of time (yours, not mine) - I will post the story in parts!


The Very Beginning...

I distinctly remember the social worker standing in the breezeway between the main school building and the annex at my catholic school.  I don’t recall why I was with her in that particular spot, but I remember the feeling that my life was about to change.  Ironically, she wasn’t coming to take me away from my parents and place me in the home of strangers.  Rather, she was there to explain foster care to a group of fifth graders, who - up to that point - had more than likely never encountered anyone that they knew to be a foster child. 

I actually have no other recollection of the social worker visit or what she might have said that changed my thinking for a lifetime, but it must have impacted me because standing in that breezeway looking at what was probably a nun dressed in street cloths - a new concept in the 1970’s -  I knew something big was about to happen.  Likewise, I have no recollection of going home with a flier recruiting foster parents, but my parents tell me that my sister and I brought it to them and told them that we had to do something about these kids who had no home. 

The only other memory I cannot erase has to do with moving out of our tiny two-bedroom home where all four children shared one room, to a four bedroom mansion -- or so it seemed to me - that my architect father and incredibly frugal mother had just built alongside a few professionals and their four motley kids.  After the move, kids at school started to call us “rich.”  I don’t understand why that word was so profoundly negative to me, but it created an overwhelming sense of shame that made me recognize that I was exceptionally fortunate, but that it was useless if I didn’t do something good.

And so the story began.  For reasons I have never fully explored, my parents agreed that we needed to become a foster family.  So we did. 

The first call we got was for a pregnant teenager named Mary Grace.   This was the 1970’s and back then, pregnant girls didn’t live with their families.  Especially Catholic girls. They were whisked away to have the baby quietly so that the baby could be placed for adoption without humiliating the girl’s family.  In this case, the parents didn’t want her grandmother to find out she was pregnant.  Mary Grace was apparently feisty and she told her parents to send the grandmother away if they didn’t want her to know.  And they did. For some reason, I remember thinking she was brave to stand up to her family and not hide in shame. I thought it was bad to be pregnant, but worse to be fake. She never came to live with us.

The first foster child that actually came to live with us was a 16-year-old girl named Beverly.  She lived with us for about a month, but she really didn’t want to be there and tried to make everyone’s life miserable.  While skating she broke her arm and through an odd set of circumstances - eventually went back to live with her family. At that point, my parents decided to foster younger children instead of teens – thinking that might be a better fit given that my siblings and I were between 5 and 10 at that point.

For the next several years, my life became an emotional rollercoaster for me as babies moved in and out of our lives. But this was definitely a family affair.  When my parents received a call for a child, they gathered the family together to discuss our options. From the moment we decided to foster a child, we all seemed to fall deeply and incredibly in love.  Whether the baby stayed for days or months or years didn’t seem to matter.  God seemed to give us all the ability to bond and attach instantly, which made the leaving part especially challenging.  Fortunately, my parents created a unique family ritual that helped us cope.

Up through the 1970’s, adoptions were closed and foster parents had no contact with the adoptive parents.  Essentially, the adoptive parents were told to pretend like the day that they received their child was the first day of the child’s life – no matter the age.  That left no room for relationships, comfort items, familiar objects, or even pictures of the time before adoption.

But my parents were far ahead of their time and understood the importance of this information for both the child and his new parents.  My mom kept a daily journal of the baby’s activities.  She made photo albums to send to the new parents.  She sent the baby’s favorite toys and blankets.  But we were at the mercy of the social worker.  She could give all this to the adoptive parents as some record of the baby’s early life - or toss it carelessly into the trash.  We would never know. 

When it was time for a child to leave, our family would begin the ritual of what I can best describe as grieving. We all understood that our role was to love this child for as long as she or he was with our family.  Nothing more.  But that didn’t make the goodbye easy.  In fact, if we did our job well, leaving felt incredibly hard. 

As soon as we received word that a baby was leaving, we began collecting items, packing belongings, writing notes, telling stories, giving extra kisses and love as we prepared for the final moments when the social worker would come to our home to take the baby to his new home.

When she came, she arrived to our family ritual.  All of us kids stayed home from school and we all sat in our adult-only living room crying as we passed the baby around for our final goodbyes.  We remembered.  We talked.  We laughed.  We would tell the social worker all the things that we thought were important for the new parents to know.  And then the baby walked out of our life, never to be heard from again.

When I was about 17, my mother was contacted about fostering a very special little boy named Timothy, who was medically fragile.  He was 8-months-old and had been labeled a vegetable by the medical staff. Born with serious medical problems to a 16-year-old mother, the doctors had done all they could do for him.  If he had any chance at life, the doctors felt he needed to be in a home.

My mom and our family had absolutely no experience with medically fragile children.  We had no idea how to do anything. My mom, who would bear most of the burden of providing for his medical needs, simply didn’t feel qualified to handle such serious medical issues.

But that has never stopped my mom and dad – and now their kids – from doing anything.  She and my father went to visit Timothy in the hospital and they decided almost immediately that they were willing to sacrifice to take on his enormous challenges -- but they wanted my siblings and me to agree because it would impact us too.

 

Shortly after meeting Timothy in the hospital, my mom was in the car with my 15-year-old brother on the way home from football practice.  My mom said to my brother, “Chris, I don’t know if we can handle this kind of child.” 

Much to my mom’s surprise, Chris responded, “Mom, all the other kids have been easy.  Maybe God is asking us to do something hard.”  My mom later said that clinched the deal for her and my father.

After that conversation, there was no turning back.  This tiny helpless infant - who was purportedly blind and unresponsive to humans. This baby - who had never smiled or laughed.  This child - who was fed through a tube in his stomach and had never even sucked a pacifier.  This child was the one my parents fell in love with. 

We brought Timothy home and he lived and inspired more love in our household than one could imagine.  People from all walks of life fell in love with this little boy that supposedly had nothing to offer this world.  We were supposed to help him.  We fed him.  We held him.  We clothed him. We gave him medicine.  We cleaned his tubing.  My mom worked tirelessly to develop his sucking reflex.  We did everything for this helpless baby.  But the truth is - he helped us. 

When he was 15-months old, Timothy died in the home of another foster family that had been preparing for weeks to take care of Timothy  – just so my parents could have a few days of respite from his 24-hour care. My dad sensed that Timothy’s time on earth was nearing an end and he was trying to give my mom a short break to re-energize -  but he had no way of knowing it would happen the one night they took for rest. 

My parents, who were both raised as devout Catholics, were also a product of the 1960’s and – my dad especially – was never one to follow the crowd.  Mom and dad chose a plain pine casket and had Timothy brought to our home for the wake and funeral.  They couldn’t bear the thought of allowing his tiny little body to be alone in some refrigerator at a strange place.

I was older by then, but it didn’t seem strange to me that the cold, lifeless body of our precious Timothy was upstairs in our living room while I tried to sleep in the room directly below.  I remember going upstairs once during the night to check on him and I saw my mom sitting beside the casket, crying. 

There were probably 200 people crammed into our house for the funeral.  There was music and poetry.  My siblings and I were teenagers and all our friends were grieving with us.  Timothy had impacted their lives too.  It was beautiful. 

Looking back, I thank my parents for breaking modern taboos and opening my heart up to the unexpected.  I had no way of knowing that 30 years later, I would bury my own child and that my views on her memorial would be so significantly impacted by my parents’ choices. 

Last year, I described these experiences to a new friend, who said to me quite sympathetically, “Wow.  You must have suffered a lot of loss in your childhood.”  Based on the look on this man’s face, my reaction was anything but expected.  I burst into tears as I tried to gather my thoughts and respond. 

Loss?  The word brought on a flood of emotions.  I thought for a moment, “ Did I suffer because these children came and went from my life?”  Through hiccupping tears that must have made this new friend think he had opened some terrible wound of my past, I said, “No.  It wasn’t loss at all.  For me, it was all gain.”

My tears were those of joy.  Not sadness.  Even now it make me cry to realize how blessed my life was by these children.  "No sir, it was not loss.  In my mind, it was all gain."


Up until that moment, I never realized that I thought of my role as foster sibling that way.  It was a profound moment.  


Enough for now... barring disaster - or another trip to the emergency room for the staph infection that finally presented itself like a unicorn on the forehead of my baby -  the story continues tomorrow.  

Quantity versus Quality

No question about it.  We have a butt load of kids.  Sorry.  We use the word butt a lot in our house.  And a few other words that aren’t polite or allowed in public school.  Like SHUT UP. And sometimes SHUT THE *%$#)# UP NOW! But that is reserved for special occasions. I’m not proud of this.  Just honest.

Anyway, when I went to bed last night, we not only had the usual 16, but we still had company.  At least 4 extras were still hanging around.  Mostly unannounced.  At 10:30 p.m., my husband asks when everyone should leave.  I tell him that no one is here that should prevent us from going to sleep.  Sometimes, that isn’t the case.  We turn out the lights with the sound of people awake all around us. Most are over the age of 13.

When I awake.  I sleepily turn on Jake and the Never land Pirates for a few minutes while we are trying to get everything ready.  Change or help change 4 diapers/pull-ups.  Check.  Remind each preschooler to throw dirty bottom wear in the back porch trash – not on the porch itself.  Check.  5 sippy cups of milk.  Check. 2 bottles of formula. Check.  Bacon, Eggs and Pancakes for my husband and whoever shows up to eat.  Check. Star Bucks Bold coffee for my husband. Check. Diet Dr. Pepper for me.  Check.

Everywhere I turn, there are people. My husband gets up earlier than me to clean out the sink and sweep and mop the floor so I can make breakfast.  He knows I can’t cook a new meal when the old one is still around and he wants me to cook. Food is critical to his manhood.

Our newborn is in a bouncy seat with a zipper cover to prevent the little ones from touching him.  My 4-month old grandson, who was prematurely booted from the bouncy seat because the newborn arrived, has moved up to the swirly seat with toys all around it.  His legs are too short and don’t touch the ground.  The one, three and four-year olds are all hovering - waiting for my lap. One per leg and one tucked in the middle against my chest.  When they were smaller I could fit four.  Our 6-year-old is lying across the couch.  The other 4-year-old is playing something on the computer.  And the 2-year-old is wandering from place to place silently creating havoc. 

The 8-year-old is on the other computer trying to create new recipes for a smoothie and taco dip.  The 12 and 13- year-olds are still in bed.  Three of the semi-adult kids have already left for work. The last one is packing her lunch, eating and talking to me while I cook and she prepares to leave for work.  The teen mamma and daddy of the newborn baby are sleeping (separately for those of you who are wondering).  The baby schedule is still upside down.  They have been staying up all night with the newborn because they are afraid to sleep when he is awake.  They sleep in when one of the big kids or me takes over for a few hours in the morning.  So far, they have been doing a good job with their son.   

My married daughter texts me about choosing paint colors for her new house.

And it is only 8 something a.m.

Within a few minutes, one of the semi-adult kids comes back home with the two she is babysitting.  They planned to go to the pool but it was too cold so they came over.  There are still a few places on the main level not fully saturated with people so they stay to hang with the crowd.  Figures.

There are two 3-foot-tall piles of laundry to be put away on the coffee table. There is no dirty laundry, but I HATE putting the clean stuff away.  Since last night, I’ve sorted through buckets of newborn clothes and washed them for the newbie.  The kitchen is now a mess again from breakfast.

A friend calls to ask for advice about a psychiatrist.  The 1-½ year-old starts crying while I’m on the phone.  He has dumped all the syrup onto the counter and himself and is crying because he is literally stuck to his seat and he has diaper rash from his antibiotic! I have had to resort to one of the babies holding his own bottle in the bouncy seat at my feet.  Not ideal.  I know.  But it’s either that or he must wait even longer! 

So, in the middle of all of this I keep thinking.  By our definition this is not chaos.  Just very busy and full.  Sometimes, all hell breaks loose and it takes me shouting at the top of my lungs – louder than all the rest – to break the cycle and get their attention.  I find that acting like a crazed lunatic is an effective tool for getting them to listen.  

I’m wondering if the quantity of kids affects my performance.  Wait.  That is a ridiculous question.  Of course it affects my performance.  Often, I don’t have the time or energy to meet every individual need.  Someone usually fills the gap, but not always.  We can’t afford to allow each child to pursue every activity he can dream up.  We have limited funds for college tuition and depend on scholarships, grants and work.  All of our children can’t be enrolled in private school at the same time.  We don’t buy new clothes or the latest fashions unless it positively affects the emotional or mental health of a particular child or they purchase it with their own money. Allowance is a thing of the past.   

We used to have individual dates with each child each week.  We are far too outnumbered for that now and dates tend to be with whoever is most in need of attention. Again, the older kids step up for some quality time with the little ones and they support each other quite well.  Up to about 10 children, we took the family out to dinner on each birthday.  With 21 birthdays between Mother’s Day and August 9, we would now have to spend our annual salary to accomplish that. 

My semi-adult and adult children still need my time and attention, but I’m often so busy with a young child that I can’t give them my undivided self.  Often, I’m having a serious conversation with an adult child about their marriage or some serious major life issue. Or one of my college students needs mommy during final exam stress.  Or a teenager runs away and I’m on the phone with the sheriff.  Again. And while we are talking, I interrupt the conversation with shouts, “Jennifer, you can’t ride the bike down the steps.” 

“Shawn, stop screaming.  It doesn’t hurt that bad.” 

When I'm on the phone I close my eyes so I can concentrate.  It's a dangerous habit.  A little boy places his cupped hands directly in front of my face. My eyes fly open.  “Sam!   UGGGHHH.  What is that?"  I jump out of my seat. "Sweetie. I told you no more frogs in the house.  Take him outside.  Now go!  ... I said go! ... NOW! Are you deaf? ...  Catch the dang frog and get it outside.  Then wash your hands.  We don't need salmonella in the house!”

The older child must pause in mid-sentence or mid-cry and wait for me to finish. They have learned a great deal of patience  - though I doubt they like it.

I could go on with illustrations, but I think I’ve made my point. Perhaps I could have avoided all this discussion because the answer seems obvious.  But I can’t stop there. It occurs to me that the real question is not whether the quantity of kids affects my performance.  Rather, I must question whether we are a better option than the alternative.  Or like the standard in the physician’s Hippocratic oath, I ask if we are “doing no harm.” 

Ultimately, all we really have to offer is a commitment to endure through thick and thin.  A willingness to allow other seriously imperfect people to join the multitude of imperfect people who are already members of our family – including my husband, our birth kids, and myself.  That’s it.  We offer a permanent place to call home.  And a large group of people who will call you a family member – even when you aren’t very likable. 

It’s not the best.  Best would be for each family unit to stay together as God intended. 

It’s not ideal. Ideal would be for another biological family member to be able and willing to take the responsibility so the children can still be part of the extended family.

But it is good.  It does offer hope and a future.  And by definition, we are only an option when we are the best choice among the possibilities. Of course I wish I could be more to more people.  I wish I could meet every need.  But ultimately, that isn’t my responsibility.  Or my husband’s.  It is for God.  And I trust he will make it all good.  

A Big Fat Zero in Parenting 101!

Today is a day when I get a big fat ZERO for my parenting skills.  Today is the kind of day when I need Nanny 911 or SuperNanny or CrazyLady# 346 to come to my rescue instead of other people asking me for parenting advice.  Today is the kind of day I wish didn’t exist.

I’m tired.  It has been an eventful week and one of my babies has been sick on and off for months with a staph infection.  Last night he woke up at 12:55 a.m. and he spent the rest of the night kicking, screaming, hitting and throwing fits by dropping to the floor while simultaneously reaching out for me. Talk about irony.  As he reached up over the side of the bed for me to pick him up – AGAIN - because he voluntarily squirmed down only moments before – a new fit begins and he hits his mouth on the bottom of the bed rail and it starts bleeding – not once - but twice.  He screams “owie” when I sit him on the counter to make his milk cup.  He screams bloody murder when I try to change his poopy diaper.  He falls to the ground if his feet hit the floor.

But even with 6 prior events and lots of practice, I can’t find any early signs of a new infection and the frustration in my voice is evident.  I’m part exhausted.  Part frustrated at the thought that he might be sick again – when he hasn’t even finished this round of antibiotics.  Part unemotional – even when he hurts himself – because I usually ignore fits and tantrums.  Part trying to keep him quiet enough so that he won’t wake up every other person in the house. 

Finally, at 5:30 a.m., after I tried everything and I know that I am too tired and frustrated to cope any more, I put him back to his bed in the room next to mine and let him scream loud enough to wake the dead from the safety of his bed.  He and I finally fell asleep about 6:30.  Everyone else in the house began waking up about 7:30. 

Waking up after a night like that.  After a week like this.  After a lifetime of dealing with never ending problems, I sympathize with those who have found themselves in similar positions and don’t have the support system or coping skills or knowledge to push through the pain and get through a problem without hurting their child.  It seems odd that I would feel that way about the people who hurt the children I take care of – but I empathize because I can see how it easy it would be for me to go completely over the edge and hurt another person.  There, but for the grace of God, go I.  Those words play over and over in my head. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not condoning hurting your children or anyone else. And I’m not excusing it. I’m simply stating what other people might recognize but not admit.  We all have that innate capacity for evil and we are all selfish to some degree and those qualities, left unchecked and without God, can yield some horrific results. 

So, my child listened to a frustrated mom rather than the sweet voice of his caretaker soothing his apparent pain.  My child, who I’m pretty sure wasn’t intentionally trying to make me mad or hurt me, had to experience distance from me rather than a reassuring hug even when he was pushing me away.  My child, who deserves better, got me.  I'm still just a human.  I’m sorry.  I will try to do better tomorrow.

Big Decisions. Huge Decisions. Super-size Decisions.

I’m standing in the shower semi- alone parenting from afar. I am diligently trying to organize my thoughts.  I know.  TMI.  But it’s one of the few places I can block out some of the distractions and try to think clearly.  I stand under the warm water a long time – between shouts to my 2-year-old asking him what he is doing – and reminders to my 3, 4 and 6- year-old that I just told them “No balls in the living room!”  (It’s amazing how much you can tell from the vibrations on the shower wall.) 

Anyway, I’m praying and trying to ask for clarity for a very important decision our family must make.  Do we grow again from super-size to unfathomable?  Are we willing to take the risks associated with taking in yet another older teen and her baby – knowing that her child’s father will also need to be integrated into the home at some level.  Knowing what I know.  Doing this as many times as I already have.  Recognizing that it takes many years of a committed relationship with both mom and child to transform lives.  Experiencing - first hand - that success (at least in worldly terms) is not guaranteed.

So, the questions remain:

Am I prepared to guide yet another young woman into her role as mother to her child – acting as part mom to the teen and part mom to the baby – instructing, teaching, leading and sometimes yelling, demanding and ordering?

Can I offer enough to everyone?   In the past three days I have driven 3 hours each direction to bring 3 of our kids to the wedding celebration of their biological aunt – so that they can continue their relationship with the members of their biological family who want and deserve to know these children.  Arriving home at midnight, I am awakened at 6:30 a.m. by a phone call from the biological sibling of two of our adopted children, asking me to rush to the hospital for her delivery.  This could have been exciting, BUT this day had been set-aside for the graduation party of my current high school senior.  The phone call disrupted the well-made plans and meant that everyone had to pitch in to clean and cook and get ready for the party so that I could stay at the hospital.  I left the hospital when she was 7 cm -- just in time to help my mother and older daughters find the necessary dishes, sweep the floors and clean up the children.  I never changed out of the clothes I threw on in a rush at 6:30 a.m.  I never got to put on make-up so that I wouldn’t look like a freak of nature in pictures with my daughter.  I never got to brush my teeth.  I was sweaty from the last minute rushing around. But I tried to stay fully focused on her celebration – enjoying the company.   I didn’t want to short-change the graduate by focusing on the baby that was likely being delivered while I was at the party.

As the last guests left the party, I grabbed a toothbrush and a clean shirt and raced out the door to return to the hospital – hoping I would make it in time for the baby.  I missed it by about 15 minutes.  I was okay with that, but I didn’t want to short-change my child in labor either.  I didn’t want her to feel less important than the graduating child.  All I could do was tell her that her baby “broke in line and he and I needed to have a long talk. “ He was due the next day and my plans depended on him coming on schedule.  He didn’t.  Which is the story of my life.

And then there is the question of the rest of the family.  How did they feel?  Many times.  In fact, most times, the question is really what “I” can handle as mom.  Unless my husband has a very strong indicator otherwise, he always defers to my saturation level.  If I can’t handle one more, then he certainly can’t do it.  Sometimes I tell him that I can’t do it without his help so I have to know that he fully agrees – even if he doesn’t always want to make the sacrifice.  But, in a few situations, circumstances demand that we involve the entire family in decision-making.  This is one of those times.  Because it is clear I am already overwhelmed.  It is clear I already have too much on my plate.  It is clear that I am only one person and that I can’t do this alone.  So I need to know whether they are willing to make the sacrifices necessary to make this work.  We hold a family meeting.

Two hours later, we have hashed out many of the issues.  We talked about the importance of the biological links to this child and her new baby.  We talked about the positives and negatives. We prayed together.  Tried to determine our likelihood of success.  Discussed balancing our mission as a family verses the needs of our kids to find their own path and do whatever it is God is calling them to individually.  We talked about how hard these choices are.  About how we need God to be direct and tell us what to do. 

And while these thoughts swirl in my head, I think about how I would persuade a judge that our family deserves a chance to offer this young mother and her new baby a chance to make up for past mistakes.  Lots of past mistakes.  How would I convince the welfare agency or the family court judge that in spite of our super-size nature, that we have nothing worldly to gain from this endeavor except the gratification of knowing that we were willing to try -- knowing that success is not inevitable.  How could I explain that we understand that this teen mom has the potential to disrupt the entire family – but that she isn’t the first person with that potential and we have survived thus far.

And then our 2011 Christmas picture came to mind.  It contains 20 people – which is most of our kids, some of their spouses, and most of the grandkids.  But when I start counting I realize that 10 people are still missing!  One was in Japan working Tsunami relief.  Two were on their honeymoon.  Two were in New Orleans. Three were at another family gathering. One can’t be seen because he wasn’t born yet and the last one passed away last year in a car accident.

And this image made me think about a few weeks ago when my husband and me took our three biological children to a wedding.  At about the same time, we all realized that it was one of the few times we had been in this particular combination in years.  We have been raising other people’s children for so long that it is rare for the original five of us to be separate from ALL the other kids.  It was remarkable enough that it lead to a “what if” conversation about how our lives would have been so different if we hadn’t accepted our mission.  Although we enjoyed that night together immensely, none of us wished that our lives had turned out differently.  We laughed at the possibilities.

And in the shower, under the warm water, while shouting to one of the big kids to check on all the little ones so I could think for just a few more minutes – I realized that our super-size family Christmas picture represented not just numbers, but lives that were different because we had been willing to take risks and sacrifices.  Because we had been willing to make a lifetime commitment, in spite of less than stellar conduct.  That if we had taken the easier road, we would have been able to fit our charming little family on a single greeting card – but we wouldn’t have had the honor of joining others through this journey called life. 

I still don’t have a clear answer.  But I know that it is worth it.  Even when I feel like a failure.

Post Script 1.

It keeps occurring to me that we can’t make any promises of success. And that isn’t very reassuring. Especially to lawyers and judges. And we have problems and issues much like the rest of the world – just condensed in time and space.  And while I can’t ensure that this teen mom will overcome all of her obstacles and successfully parent her child, I can say that we traditionally work through the issues in the context of our family and our community – not through the state welfare agency.  The state exists for those that cannot manage through their own support networks.  Our children are safe.  Our children are loved.  All of our children face many difficulties and challenges – even my biological children and the ones who came as newborns – but we are working together.  Helping each other.  Learning from each other.  Supporting each other. In the context of family.  And that is the way it should be.

Post Script 2.

We made our decision as a family.  It will be hard.  Very hard.  It will require sacrifices – including changing rooms – again.  It will require team work.  But we are willing to try to do it.  We are willing to take mother and baby.  Now lets see if we can convince the attorneys, social worker and the judge. Praying as I sit in court.

Post Script 3.

Mom and baby are home.  They are ours.