Forgiveness

It’s been awhile (again). My poor neglected blog. Tonight, I’m thinking about forgiveness. It’s a cornerstone in the faith. Forgive as you have been forgiven. And all the jazz. There is little I don’t forgive. However, that little is growing. I want with all my heart to forgive Matthew’s birth mother, Carlee’s birth mother, and my ex-sister in-law. But, I can’t. They never personally wronged me. They hurt my kids. My nieces. I have no forgiveness in me for them. I hate that. Every time I think I’m getting close, there’s another hurt that makes itself known. There’s another news article my precious son will read one day. There’s another bout of seizures that makes my daughter cry. There’s another saying from my niece, words she shouldn’t have hear. I know forgiveness isn’t about them. It’s about letting it go in my own heart. Who cares if they try to make up for their actions, that’s not the point. The point is my own heart. The unforgiveness festering into bitterness. Wondering why they weren’t punished enough. I struggle with it a lot. I’m thankful that Carlee’s birth mother has found a mentor of sorts. Someone who doesn’t harbor the anger that I do. I’m so glad she has her in her life. She needs to see what went wrong and ways to fix it. She needs that motherlyish love. She won’t be getting it from me anytime soon. Matthew’s birth mother is in prison, where hopefully she’ll remain until he’s well into adulthood. But it will be long before adulthood that we’ll have to have a conversation. “Who gave birth to me?” and though he’s been here since he was 35 days old, there is a world of pain waiting. And I hate it. Pain from the woman who gave him life, the life she stole from his sister and brother, the family members that chose not to be in his life though they had the chance, and where he stands in the middle of those feelings. I don’t even know how to begin that conversation. A little at a time based on age, but the hurt it will cause him, even if he chooses to ignore it, to me that’s unforgivable. She’s going to cause my son pain. My sister-in-law allowing the worst thing to happen to a child, happen to my firstborn niece. Her neglect, her abuse, her verbal sewage. I’m furious on my nieces behalf. I don’t forgive her.

But I want to. I know it’s the “right” thing to do. I don’t know how.

Today, I rage.

She came to me a broken little 20 month old. After over two years of healing and hoping and helping. She’s still broken. She still cries out from the pain of her seizures. She still chokes on her own puke that she brings up without knowing she can stop it. She has a hole in her stomach to receive food. Her ears don’t hear correctly. She deals with a disease that’s meant to be given to adults who have unprotected sex. Not to an innocent child. She still doesn’t speak. She still falls and stumbles and bruises her head. She still can’t play without mouthing the toy. She has zero self care goals met.

Most days, I can deal with this. Most days I see all progress she’s made and I know she’s a miracle. Most days, I focus on the good. Today is not that day. Today is the day I cry and I rage. I rage at the fact that NONE of this had to happen. She could have been a completely normal child. Today is the day I rage. She’s aging out of nursery, but we surely can’t put her in children’s church. We keep her home. Or only keep her in Sunday School. People offer to keep her for me and it’s wonderful. But she’s my daughter and I understand what caring for her entails. She’s too much when there’s a class full of kids. She needs one on one attention. And I don’t want to hear murmuring about the “four year old still in the nursery”.

Today I rage. She has a cousin just four months older than her and they can’t play together. I get so insanely jealous seeing pictures of my niece playing dolls and tea party. Will Carlee ever do that? I flipped through a catalog of American Dolls and I would give anything to take to get one. For her to understand what they are. For her to wait impatiently to get her first one. Hell, I’d buy her every damn doll in that place if she knew. Forget Dave Ramsey, I’d bust out a credit card and get her whatever she wanted. If she knew.

Today, I rage. I get online and all my sad feelings spew. All my anger. Later today, I’ll feel guilty for posting this, for feeling this way. Right now, I’m too pissed to feel guilty. Today, I watched her have seizure after seizure. See her cry. See her suck her fingers until they bleed, because that’s all the can comfort her. I watch her on her tip toes because her ankle muscles have tighten to much for her to walk flat. Can we get into a doctor? Nope. They won’t let me have the casting that was recommended by her therapist who knows her. No, they want to do braces, as if she could understand that. “Maybe surgery when she’s eight” because why make her life any easier than it needs to be. We’ll just let her lose all range so you can cut later. What’s the big deal with another surgery?

Today, I rage. I rage at her birth mother. The child who did this to her. I could forgive, I could, she was young, much too young. But she’s gone on to have FOUR more children since Carlee’s birth. And she’s pregnant with two more. They all suffer, they all have issues. Some more than others. Thankfully, they are being cared for and loved on and healed in their new homes. She just keeps doing this. She just keeps stealing childhoods from her own children. I can pray and hope for a normal life for Carlee. For dolls and and dress up and prom and graduation and a wedding. If I listen to the doctors. She’ll have none of that stuff. Of course, I believe in a God much wiser than those doctors. But, today, I’m drowning in their diagnoses. And it’s all her fault. The pain she’s caused the child she gave birth too. It’s her fault. She packed her bags at eighteen and LEFT. She abandoned her child. She didn’t want to deal with the medical mess she made. So she just went on to have two more. And then two more. And now two more. 7 kids in 4 years. My beautiful friend can’t get pregnant. She gets to have seven kids. At least she doesn’t get to raise any of them.

Did you miss the part where SHE WALKED OUT. In all the time that I’ve had Carlee, since April of 2012, she’s never seen her. Never even tried. She messaged me last Christmas “Will I ever be able to see her again? I love seeing the pictures” I had mercy for her. I set up a visit at her family’s home. So she could see the daughter she walked out on. She said she was coming. She didn’t. No call, no text, just never showed up. That was the last time I heard from her.

Do I feel badly blasting her? No, not right now. I pray the day will come when Carlee will understand what a treasure she is, that she was adopted in love, that she will ask me about her. I’ll be kinder then. I wouldn’t want to hurt her with the harsh truth. I already have to deal with that one day with Matthew. But today, I vent. I want her to feel what Carlee has to live with. I want her understand what she’s doing to these babies. But, she won’t. And I can’t make her. So I write here. I scream here. I cry here. I rage here.

Then I wipe off my face and go back into my world with a smile. I’d give anything to make her whole. Even if that meant I’d never met her. I’d do it. But she isn’t whole and we were given the responsibility and the joy of raising her. That makes me heart smile.

Mama Said There’d Be Days Like This….

Oh, what a day!

Is than an understatement? Am I being dramatic? Who knows. What I do know is that I have been through the emotional wringer today. Carlee’s setbacks became very apparent today, the rumination, it is like a PTSD trigger. Okay, not to make light of PTSD by any means, but that year of vomit, it took it’s toll on me and seeing her start again, it’s making me a little crazy. I don’t want to see her regress. She’s been doing so well. Because she’s been doing so well she’s been used to having her cup and food. Without it, she’s a very angry non-verbal three and a half year old. Then that brings up bitter feelings toward her birth mother that I’ve tried really hard to rid my soul of. But knowing she’s walking around and living her life while she sentenced her daughter, my daughter, to a life of suffering, it just makes my blood boil. It makes me want to punch something. And cry.

There were a few high points today. My kids at preschool dyed eggs and painted with bubble wrap and playing in shaving cream. They were adorable. Bluebird fell asleep in the Ergo and I got to watch his sweet face dream. I had two really good talks with moms on the playground about life and foster care and special needs.

It was just one of those days. High and low and lower. My foster friends are getting babies left and right. I’m happy for them, I’m happy for me. But when you really stop to think about it, it’s damn depressing. All these children being removed. All these lives interrupted. I love that Bluebird is here, he’s a joy, but the ‘why’ of why he’s here is sad. And I don’t wish sad on any child. It’s the paradox of foster care. We make smiley faces and say “congratulations” when someone gets a placement. Congratulations on what? “Hey, there was a child abused, but yay, you got a baby.” I do it. We all do it. I’m glad these babies and kids have a safe place to go, but God, I wish it wasn’t needed. That parents could just parent without the neglect and the abuse. That they could break what seems to be an endless cycle. Maybe we’re the ones to break that cycle. Maybe that’s why we says congratulations. We could be the ones to stop the abuse. To change their futures. To change their family history. Or maybe I’m being dramatic.