A calling, not a curse

Having a parent who is mentally impaired is often a challenge. Sure I can look back and laugh at some of the stories now, but while in the middle of some of the madness it is frustrating. As a child, I had a great relationship with my mother. We talked all the time, we hung out, we shared stories, but by the time I was twelve I was seeking advice, direction and discipline not friendship. My mother wasn't capable of being a parent. The first time my mother was committed to a mental institution she was 13 years old. The next time she was 29 years old. It wasn't until she married her current husband Kevin, 10 years ago, that she was convinced to seek psychiatric help. Over the years through the tragic death of my brother, when he was 10 years old, several abusive relationships, and two previously failed marriages, my mother turned to drugs to self medicate. Apparently she didn't really understand the old commercials liking a frying egg to your brain on drugs, and perhaps she would have raised her hand on the part where the speaker asks "any questions," as the drugs further complicated her already diminished mental capacity. She is now medicated to keep her calm and coherent, but she still lacks the ability of higher level reasoning and decision making.
The things she has exposed me to as a child, that no typical parent would ever dream of letting their child do, or exposing them to will have to be read in my autobiographical book, as there are too many to tell in one blog entry. I was angry growing up because I didn't know she was unable to make sound decisions, I just thought she chose to do the crazy things she did. These days I find myself consistently reminding George and me, that she can not make a better decision. The transition back to California from Arizona has been a challenging one, as she left all of her important documents (i.e, birth certificate, marriage certificate, social security card) in storage in Phoenix. Instead of reordering these items, I observed as she attempted to scrape enough money together to purchase a bus ticket to Phoenix so she could get to her storage unit. Yesterday she knocks on my room door early in the morning, waking George and I up. She tells me she needs help showering (she's also physically disabled and can't stand for very long) so she isn't late to her psychiatrist appointment. I look at the clock and inform her her appointment is still 4 hours out, and we live only 30 minutes from her doctor. I tell her I will help her later. We get up, unable to go back to sleep, and she has gone to the store (2 miles away) on her scooter. She didn't charge it completely, so she runs out of power down the road from the house. She finds someone who agrees to tie a rope around her scooter and pull it back to the house (with her still on it, riding it and steering). George is so amazed and laughing, that he yells for me to run and grab my camera. I'm learning to have patience on a whole other level. Even though she is mentally challenged, I am still required to honor her. It's a challenge at times, as she makes odd requests and demands, but we are truly taking it moment by moment. I realize taking care of my family in this season is a calling not a curse, and I'm up for the challenge.

What are little girls made of?

I have watched them grow, blossom and develop over the past year, and now I have to watch them return to the negative situation they were plucked from when they first arrived a year ago.
Friday, August 11, my cousin called asking if the girls could visit for the weekend. I hadn't had time to take them to her for their first weekend visit, so I welcomed her using her gas to pick them up instead of mine. I'm usually very protective and am very much "mother hen" when they are out of my presence, but this departure was different. A week prior I had sat down with each individual girl and told them how special they were to me, and that during their time with me and George we would instill all of the necessary morals and beliefs needed to lay a solid foundation for the rest of their lives. Little did I know that conversation was preparing their heart and mine for their soon return to their mother.
Last week a brief Facebook post turned into a detailed conversation with a friend who was going through the same thing with three little girls of her own. We were able to open up to one another about our fears and hesitations in raising someone else's children. I had always told people that I had four children, but recently found myself returning to saying I have one child and three whom don't belong to me, but who still have a special place in my heart. It had been my prayer that God protect my heart and not allow me to feel what I felt when Aaliyah (a child I was adopting and had raised from birth to two years) had been ripped out of my home. I couldn't handle that type of heart break, especially right now. I just started a new job, I'm revamping my business, taking care of my mother who moved in with us almost two months ago, still handling my Aunt Rose personal affairs as she is still in the hospital, I have no time for emotional drama.
I wasn't at all upset she had taken the girls back, I was upset in the manner in which she did it. George was away for the weekend on military duty, and none of us were given the opportunity to say goodbye. Friday as the girls were walking out the door, all Didi asked me when their music lessons would start, I told her when she got back home. Her mother knew then she wouldn't be bringing them back. She knew how they looked forward to the upcoming school year. Certainly I can think of tons of things to do with their room now, and how much time I will have now, and how my house will stay cleaned again. But the chaos and whirlwind they brought to this house is unmatched by any other joy. There's that human side of me that wants to hire an attorney and fight to strip of her of her parental rights, but there's that superhuman side of me that says "you've done all you needed to do with them." As I attempted to sleep last night, I prayed for their safety and their overall emotional/spiritual health. I turned off the TV and held onto my snoring husband and allowed time for just one cry. After only 4 hours of sleep (if that), I awoke early to begin washing and packing all of their clothes that were left behind. They have survived foster care, homelessness, and abandonment. Sugar and spice and everything nice, I think not. Those little girls are made out of nails, bobbed wire, and tungsten and I know they are not easily broken.

Where Have the Butterflies Gone?

I often find myself assessing the value of things in my life. My businesses, my relationships, me. Somewhere between the conversation with my cousin last night about being a good steward of what God has blessed us with (including relationships), I began to wonder how much do I take my husband for granted. I have been looking at a loved ones current health situation, and the response of those around her wondering why has their not been a bigger response of the relationships she's sown into. Then I sought God for understanding and immediately received clarity. While we can expect others to get over the trials they've encountered with family members, the person who has sown discord will still reap what they've sown. You can't plant corn and expect peas. The negative words we speak to others can not be retracted once spoken, and no apology will reverse the damage they've done.
Each summer, I have my campers take out a piece of paper. I ask them to punch holes in it with a pen. Some get really excited to damage something and really go all out until their piece of paper resembles a melting snowflake. I then ask them to mend the holes, to which they look at me like I'm crazy. I explain to them this is what harmful words do to people. You can tell the person sorry, but it fixes nothing inside of them.
So getting back to assessing my own relationship. I lay there awake last night, wondering what part of serving my husband is love, and what part is obligation. Certainly you don't wake up every morning feeling in love. At some point the butterflies have to die right? Just as I lay there in the darkness, awake staring at the ceiling, George wakes up and puts his arms around me and passionately kisses me as though it were our first kiss. The butterflies in my stomach wake up and flutter and I have no question that I love him much more now than I did when we first started dating and never wanted to be apart. There is an evolution to love that allows you to experience a certain level of freedom. George once told me this, and I truly understand now what he meant. He once told me he required me, like freedom, like air. (Those of you who know George, know that is uncharacteristic for him.) We often move from a place of understanding the evolving of a relationship and believe the passion dying. A friend (more like brother) expressed to me on Sunday what he saw when he looked at George and I, and it blessed me more than he knew. We rarely publicly display any signs of affection, but he saw the love we truly have for one another.
I am reminded how to keep the passion going, successful swimmers come up for air, but they put their face right back in the water and keep swimming to the end. We're not knee deep in this, we're completely submerged.