Wednesday, March 22, 2017

March 2017

I fixed the kids pizza from a pre-made crust, sent Witt and T off to church and ate some salmon and broccoli while B watched Veggie Tales because that was literally the only thing to eat and if I had had chips and salsa it would have been that instead. With cheese.

I had just gotten back from a walk around the neighborhood with T where we discussed what happened in school today only I was legit out of words and he mostly denied everything that happened and basically thinks everyone is out to get him.

And they probably are, because he has a target on his back that's 75% his fault and 25% being a foster teen in the school system.

I've said everything. I can't think of anything else to say, and he just looks at me and there is nothing in him that is trying to lie to me, and his brown eyes are hiding a lot and it's not lies it's pain.

Psychologically he is in survival mode-- it wasn't me. He can't see himself as the problem. That's how I'll get through this, that's how I got out of tough situations before.

That and throwing the first punch.

 When I finished my actually healthy meal, I opened instagram and saw a post from someone talking about how hard parenting is. And I put my head down on the table and cried.

It is so hard.

And it's double hard co-parenting with the State, who, when you talk about the behavioral issues your six-year-old is having, just wants to revert back to things we changed already.

And I know that his behavior is mostly stemming from trauma he endured not just at his parents hands but at his former foster home too, and I hate them,

all of them,

I hate all the people and the years that the locus destroyed.

I feel so powerless, and I love them but sometimes I don't like them or myself, and I wonder if it will always be this way.

If every day will feel like a struggle, like an uphill climb, like regression and regret and if I'll ever sit at work again not jumping every time the phone rings and I hear something from the school.

I've lost five to ten pounds since we started this journey and I'm not sure why except maybe it's the acid turning in my stomach on a daily basis or the fact that I no longer sit on the couch and read magazines with a glass of wine but I watch super hero movies or play video games, fix lunches, give baths, attempt to clean, do dishes, force teenagers to sweep the floor, go for walks because that's the best time to talk or a run or ride bikes or laundry laundry laundry.

And in the midst of that I try to install values and teach respect and break up the fights and encourage Witt to step off the ledge and write notes of encouragement and apologize when I get it wrong or yell or am too harsh.

But sometimes I don't know if it's too late. If the damage to their brains from the trauma is too much, the hurt and rejection and instability and dangerous lifestyle, has it done too much?

Am I doing enough?

Why on my way home from work do I want to steer the car in the opposite direction of the house?

And I read and repeat: I will restore the years the locus has destroyed. Job 25.

When I sit on the edge of his bed and pray with him and run my fingers through his curly hair I know God can.

When he asks if I'm going to pray or lets me know I forgot devotions I know God can.

When she hugs me and tells me I'm the sweetest mommy I know God can.

When she is helpful and sweet and outgoing I know God can.

When its' rough and the bad moods are plentiful and I feel like an entire system is against me I know God can.

I know I can't. All the love I have for these kids, all the ways they feel like mine, all the plans I have for their future, I can't do enough.

But God can.
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