Saturday, 27 October 2012

The Rantings of a Middle-aged Doormat



      A sane person walking into my house today would have beat a hasty retreat. The soggy noodles squashed into the carpet, chippie packets strewn about and packs of children in every crevice and cavity would have been too much. They were for me. I have been trying to get to my computer all day, unsuccessfully, to write a short story.

Not any short story mind you. This one has to be witty and well-written, imaginative and creative with just the right amount of literary devices. A story to grab a reader’s interest from the beginning and leave them with something worthwhile to think about at the end. I have a deadline looming and have been trying for a month but for some reason the right words just keep alluding me. Perhaps, like my floor, they are buried under the paraphernalia of childhood activity; drowned out by the incessant Brrr! Brrr! of the phone ringing.

Its hard to conjure up foreign worlds and amazing plots when it keeps intruding. When I first moved back to my home town I resented the way it controlled my life. I often unplugged it when I wanted some peace but people complained so much I don’t do that any more. The tranquillity that moved here with me is long gone anyway. So there isn’t much point.

I did try to hold onto it at the beginning but with the busyness of resuming my old life it didn’t last long. In rare quiet moments I’d remember back to days spent sitting on the front porch of my tumbled down cottage in the country, watching the graceful dance of the windmills on the nearby hills, listening to the birds singing and enjoying the clean fresh air around me. It felt like, after all my years of searching I had finally found home. I was where I was meant to be. Fate, however, had other ideas and after two idyllic years I was called back to reality, once again, by a phone call. Something was up. My family needed me and so I moved back here. Sometimes I curse Thomas Edison.

Anyway, back to today’s phone calls. The first one came through at 6.30 am. Just after I’d pulled my weary body from the bed I share with the foxy I inherited from daughter No.1. I don’t like dogs anymore than I do children but nobody believes me. I guess, with three in the house it is hard to be convincing. They think I’m joking and laugh when I complain about their mess, fur and the doggie smell that assaults my senses everywhere I turn. I have strict rules about where they sleep and what they can do but the dogs listen to me about as much as children do. So I’ve given up. I’ve also given up on limiting the amount of children I look after. There is no point.

For some strange reason people think I’m good with them. That I like them even. Friend and foe drop then off with rapt abandon - and who can blame them. I rarely say no. 

That first call was from a friend asking if I could watch her 5 year old for the day. She had the ’flu and he was already bored. I reasoned Bailey could play with my young son and that would free me up to write my story. Sounds good in theory but the reality, when he arrived, did not quite match the fantasy. Proof I do have an imagination after all though. Instead of catching that sliver while it was there and running with it I was conned into answering such bizarre questions as “If I had all the money in the world would the bank be big enough to hold it,’ and using Google to find intelligent answers.

Intellectually stimulated they disappeared while I was on the phone to harassed parent no.2. She had put her back out and Toby had woken with a bad cold and couldn’t go to kindy. Could I have him for the day? What the heck, I thought. He can play with the boys. Likely story. Toby preferred to squeeze the life out the ginger kitten daughter No.3 had rescued from a home worse than ours. So we made gingerbread together. Helped by Azi, the two year old we managed to get flour throughout the house and forgot to add the sugar. But at least the kitten was safe.

By the time we had decorated the biscuits with coloured icing, sprinkles and chocolate hail my story consisted of a line of nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnns the three year old had written on the blank page of my computer. Not quite the literary devices I had in mind but it was better than anything I’d been able to come up with all day. It was time to pick kids up from school so nothing much I could do about it now.

Pulling into the school I received a txt from a friend on his way to the hospital with another brain bleed. Could I pick up his two children and keep them until his wife finished work. How could I refuse? I couldn’t very well leave them at school in the rain and it was an emergency.

Did I forget to mention it was raining? Yes, by the bucketful, filling up the holes the dogs had dug in the front lawn, spilling out over the guttering I never get time to clean and dripping down the flue to come to a sizzling halt on the dilapidated Kent fire. Another thing I need to fix.

I’d just piled everyone out of the car, taken off coats and boots, fed the hordes and reloaded the dishwasher when the phone rang again. I reluctantly picked up the receiver. It had taken a while to find buried under a pile of children’s’ artwork on a kauri dresser I’d once imagined displaying an antique vase full of fresh flowers. More proof of a creative side but not the type stories are made from.

  “Mum’s sick. Can you come get us?” It was ten year old Sarah. I have been providing respite care for her family since she was a baby and was often called up to look after them at a moments notice.

“All four of you?”

“Yes.” How on earth was I going to fit everyone into the van? Luckily my 20 year old daughter was just pulling into the driveway and I was able to con her into minding a few kids while I embarked on my rescue mission. She hates kids more than I do but people believe her and don’t even go there. Except her mother. I now had thirteen children running through the house like rats through the streets of medieval London; sheets being made into huts, baking smells wafting out from the kitchen, candle and crayon experiments at the table, toys scattered everywhere, the baby was crying the sound of the teenagers music was blaring down from the upstairs bedroom. It was mayhem and the next time the phone rang I could hardly hear it above the din.

This time it was the hospital wanting me to come in the next day. My test results for ovarian cancer had come in and treatment was urgent. My first thought was one of delight. How welcome the peace and cleanliness of a hospital ward would be right now. Any other feelings that tried to emerge were quickly shelved and would have to stay there until the kids were in bed, the house cleaned up and my story written.

Fat chance! A few hours later, just as I had sat down was about to type my first word the jangle of the front gate heralded the arrival of another visitor - my eldest daughter calling in after an arduous day of her own. As we chattered and caught up with each other over our chamomile tea (grown myself back when life flowed at a simpler pace) the house settled down to the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof and the incessant drip of the fire place leak. Only now it was worse and the carpet was getting wet, too.

And that’s where I am now. Its late and I have barely stopped in 17 hours. Finally the house is quiet. I’ve turned off the phone and locked all the doors. As I slump my weary body down on the computer chair and bring up Microsoft Word I realise, if I count the nnnnnnnnnnnnnnns already on the computer I still have 1499 more words to write. I know somewhere deep inside me is a story trying to get out if only I know how to reach down and grab it. It won’t be tonight though. I don’t have the energy. I hardly have the strength to turn off the computer and drag myself to bed.

I only wish I’d remembered to turn the electric blanket on.

 This was written about two weeks before I had an operation for a 3 kg ovarian cyst. A week later I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia. It is a reminder of how crazy my life had become in the months (years) leading up to my illness. When the consultant confirmed my leukaemia I did not want treatment and only did so from the urging of my family. My life was more than I could manage and I was ready to opt out big time.

Several times during my hospital stay I dreamt of a baby I had forgotten to feed and change. Sometimes it was hidden away in a cupboard, other times lost and neglected amongst the busyness of my day. That baby was me. I was so overwhelmed by the needs of those around me I had forgotten to nurture myself. I was so far gone I had forgotten I even had needs. I had convinced myself that I was living authentically.
 
I go back to this story often. It is my reality check. I never want things to get this crazy again. I no longer have the energy or desire to do what I once did. I say 'no' often now and people listen. Even the dogs. An insurance claim paid for a new fireplace and my kauri dresser displays ornaments and a family photo.
 
I'm not there yet though. I still have a way to go before I'm living a life that fits.
   
   

The Joy of Giving Birth

“What’s your dog’s name?” she asks getting out of the car. I’m riveted to the spot, staring, taking in all I can of her soft brown skin, hazel eyes and badly cut short hair. She has a ribbon in it, tied into a bow on top of her head like a Christmas present. Her clothes are old, stained and too small. “Jesse.” I say. “Would you like to pat her?” I’m too slow. She’s already off exploring the front yard like an animal let out of its cage, everywhere at once. Within seconds she has climbed a tree, used the swing and asked several questions. “Come build a marble-run,” another child suggests and soon we have bits of yellow and red plastic spread over the lounge floor. I make coffee and serve biscuits for Charlie and Judy, the elderly couple who have cared for the new arrival since she entered foster care two and a half years ago. Several weeks earlier I had read an advertisement in the local paper asking for permanent foster parents for a 10 year old high needs child who loved art and animals. Straight away I knew this child was meant for us and we applied to CYFS to become her new parents. After several home visits, lengthy phone-calls, prayer and hoping here we were –meeting our new daughter for the first time. I watched amazed as she flitted through the house, into the backyard. She noticed our housetruck and wanted to look inside. They weren’t joking when they warned us she needed to be monitored like a toddler. She was everywhere at once. I set up salt dough on the back deck and we sat around creating animals. I’m not very arty but I think she made a cat. She was keen to spend the afternoon with us and after Judy and Charlie left we headed toward Awakeri Hot Pools. She chattered and asked questions beside me the whole time. So different to the quiet, withdrawn child I’d pictured. Dropping her home afterwards felt like leaving my baby with strangers. She sat by the gate watching me go, a sad expression on her face. That was ten years ago. Since then we have been irrevocably joined by an unseen umbilical cord. We co-slept and explored the world together. My passion to love and be with my new daughter was as strong as it had been when my biological children were babies and she, in turn, clung to me like a baby koala. It was intense, all-consuming and not always healthy. She was so damaged by all that her short life had been. We soon became weighed down by her reactions to an unsafe world - Reactive Attachment Disorder, ADHD, Disassociation, Oppositional Defiance Disorder, Learning Lags and Developmental Delays – and life become a steep learning curve. Together we sort God, changed, regressed, repented, fought, struggled, loved, built memories, cemented ties and grew up. It took years for her to acknowledge me as her mum and the trust between us is still developing. It has been hard pushing her out into a waiting world - this labour has been ten difficult gut-wrenching years long and I am exhausted. Over time the cord between us wound tightly, no longer a life source but stunting her growth. She struggles to choose life and I struggle to let her go. But we are getting there. Like any birth the transforming of that small, confused, waif into the gorgeous, confident young lady of today is a miracle. I am in awe just thinking about it. She is now renting a flat a learning to live independantly. My heart fills with joy every time I see her. I am thankful she is my daughter and proud of her maturity and goodness - a testament to her tenacity and the healing power of God’s love. We’ve come a long way, the two of us, and I can’t wait to see what God has planned for us next. It is time for us to enter into the joy of our Lord. Matthew 25.21 ‘For I will turn your mourning into Joy’ – the Bible.

Friday, 14 September 2012

My house is quiet - other than the crick crick of the fire beside me and the soft breathing of the five year old on my couch - I hear nothing! The TV is off, the exchange student out, the children sleeping. Its so rare its weird and I'm not sure what the best way is to enjoy it. Do I sit, let my thoughts wander, savour the moment, read the newly arrived Blood Cancer newsletter hiding underneath the books and papers on the coffee table or get up from my warm spot, dry the dishes, clear away the days rubble and put on another load of washing? All day my tasks have chosen me. Its been a wild, demanding ride and I've tried to stay calm and hang on to my sanity. Be gratful even. I've been at everyone's beck and call. The phone's rung, I've answered it; friends visited, I've sat and chattered over coffee; daughter No.1's invited me over, I've sat on her porch and watched her daycare and foster children hold baby chickens. I've driven the boy to his first day volunteering at the SPCA and shared his anger and disapointment when the head lady said he was too young; taken daughter no.3 to her horse and picked her up when she'd finished riding. I've organised the exchange student's trip out of town tomorrow, shopped for groceries; filled out forms, supervised and sent schoolwork off to the Correspondence School, answered txts, cooked meals, feed the baby, picked up daycare kids from school, taken them to the park, listened, talked, encouraged, disciplined, been my 20 yr olds brain and boosted my 10 year olds's ego, reinforced boundaries, changed nappies, cleaned, gooed at the baby - and filled the gaps with prayer. Its now 11 o'clock at night and its finally stopped. I'm sitting at the computer - lost. I have no idea what to do and no-one around to decide for me. Bed looks good but I'm waiting for the last of my daycare kids to be picked up. Her grandmother is late, very late and if she doesn't arrive soon my foster baby will be waking for her next feed before I even get to bed. I wonder what Louise Hay would say if she turned up on my doorstep. Her insight would be welcome right now. I know I've chosen this life, quite consciously most of the time. What I can't figure out is why! Surely a nice quiet bach nestled amounst bush, in a secluded bay somewhere would reflect my nature more. I found the perfect spot while on holiday a few weekends back. In a sleepy little seaside village, steeped in personal history, four little baches bunched together at the end of the road - bush backyard, sand and sea in front. It looked idylic. My mind often goes there when its not being occupied by the hundred and one demands of those around me but I doubt my body will ever join it. I hate shifting and I'd miss everyone too much. Unless I convince them all to come with me.... Sounds like a plan.

Friday, 25 May 2012

Here I am on the eve of what I hope will be a new chapter in the relationship I have with my 20 yr old foster daughter. At the moment she is at a christian healing centre enjoying (I hope) four days respite paid for by the DHB. Things have gotten increasingly bad between us as she struggles with growing up and I react, usually badly, to the ways in which her struggle manifests itself.

A few weeks ago I rang Community Mental Health and was allocated a lovely counsellor, Maude, who assures me that living at home is stunting my daughter's development and she needs to move out and grow up - hard as that will be. I agree with the concept but am not sure how it will work out in practise. My daughter reminds me of a baby eagle, safely tucked away in its parents nest, every need satisfied, unable to grasp the reason why its one day shunted over the edge and made to fly. Scary stuff!

Tomorrow when I pick my daughter up I will be that mother eagle, telling her she is not moving back home, that she will live with her sister until something more suitable is found. I feel mean. I am worried and do not know what to expect. Will she will flip her lid, right there in the car, rage and smash the windscreen or run off, climb onto some shed roof and I won't be able to get her back in the car? Will she go quiet, whites of her eyes showing, a hardness emanating from her and tell me she's coming home and that's it?

I don't even know how I will react. I'd like to think I will stay calm, be gentle and kind show compassion and stick to my guns. But who knows. I haven't been reacting that way lately so its unlikely. But with four days to think, pray, gather my strength and prepare for battle I may be okay.

I hope we are both okay, Maude is right, and it works out well for us all in the end.
     

Monday, 7 May 2012

 This week is science week at the Correspondence School.  Daniel's teacher sent him links for several experiments and today we had fun trying some of them out. This is one he was inspired to do himself with vinegar, baking soda and tempera poowder paint. He tried several ideas to get the mixture to flow down all the sides of the volcano and was successful in the end.


 Mixing a teaspoon of baking soda, a teaspoon of tartaric acid and a small canister of water to fill a plastic bag with air. This reaction made the air inside the bag very cold.


 This experiment was very simple and the results amazing. Daniel covered the bottom of a dish with whole milk, put in drops of different food colourings and then a drop of dishwashing liquid in the centre of each colour. The colours move around for ages as the dishwash searches out the milk fat.



 Flubber - a mix of borax, water and PVA glue. This stuff has a texture which appealed to Daniel.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Bad attitudes.

I wonder - do other foster carers get grumpy? Do they yell at their children and send them to bed early because they are so over listening to all the fighting and scrabbling? Do they get so tired from a long day of giving out they just want to curl into a ball and cry? How do they cope when the kids are fighting over who is going to juice the tangelos for dinner, then what glasses they will use and who gets whats left over and you are standing at the sink dog tired chopping veges for dinner thinking about a family you know in crisis -again? Or outside in a sudden downpour gathering salad vegetables wondering if that same family are eating tonight and a child pops his head around the garage door and asks you to help him make an origami paper cup - for the third time in five minutes? Or you discover that same child has been putting a weeks worth of boxes on at once and taking off the top layer each day? Hopefully not like me or we'd all be struck off the registrar and the'd be no carers left!

For the most part the house is silent now. I can hear the rain falling through broken guttering outside the front door and a story tape being played in the bedroom upstairs but other than that nothing. I have asked my childrens' forgiveness for my bad attitude toward them and God for help. I've been reminded  that its HIS job to calm the storms, heal the sick and raise the dead. Its mine to reach out, touch the hem of his cloak and believe. I don't have to do it all or be it all to these children or the family I'm worried about. I can't even heal myself of what ails me. What makes me think anything I do will heal them. Silly me! I have to wonder about myself at times.