Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Sunday Morning At Church
It was the last day of September. A great sunny day with a cool wind blowing every which way. Spider man in one hand and the hulk in the other. I don't usually allow toys but he made an agreement not to have sound affects accompany these small but mighty figures. We snuggled in as usual in the third from last row. Minutes later an older gentleman drifted in. We quickly scooted to give him a welcoming space. It was all peaceful and good. My boy was well behaved today. He tapped me on my arm and pointed to the old man who was sniffling and blowing his nose into a tissue. He said, "Barb, the man needs help." I comforted him with a hug and said that he was fine and that he was just praying. We refocused and followed along in our book for a while It was time to take the long walk to the alter for communion. As usual I bent over to ask him if he was going to accompany me as he ordinarily does. He looked up at me with tears welling up in his eyes. He was crying. The man next to him had suddenly disappeared. He said he was sad because the man was gone and he wanted to help him. We sat and held each other until his tears dried. Communion was over and it was time to go. I learned a lot at church today.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Farm Pictures
A weekend with 2 boys is quite fun. A train to start, with black, breath holding tunnels, opening to a swirling river on the right. A trip to the snack car became an immediate necessity by nature. This created an adventure of its own as we precariously stepped across the threshold. " Look down and run " were the words of urgency or possibly emergency. Never the less the snack on the train presented itself with a different flavor. When you eat dorritos on a fast train they taste so much better, you know and the crunch is even much louder. The train conductor held our attention with utmost respect, tickets, paper and pen in hand. The seriousness was quickly replaced with giggles and laughter as he moved passed the boys wiggling impatiently in their seats. "When are we getting there, when, when," they asked. "Next stop, I hope!" he said. We all laughed and looked at the boys.
It was a hot, sunny weekend. A boat, a pool, a golf cart, beds to jump on, (only once), horses, spiders and their large, sticky webs, deer, and only one fist fight. One fist fight fight on the steps. It's really OK to be afraid of spiders, but don't make fun. This warranted a seat on the couch, facing each other, until the smiles broke through . No time at all and they were up and running. Thats how boys really are.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
A Story Of A Boy
The story of a boy really began on april 18, 2006. The adoption took place just a couple days ago. July 18, 2007 to be exact. I didn't know things would take this direction but it all felt natural and comfortable. Journalling this will help me keep the spirit of my adventures with my new son.
He is a survivor, to say the least. His story is unbelievable. I don't even know where to begin really. It has been a year and 3 mo since he has been with us so my memory has been somewhat obscured by the present. His memory is doing the same. This is probably a good thing for him and maybe me too.
He had so many events to reveal. He still does but they are less frequent now than in the beginning. He was so matter of fact. I was not capable of responding. I felt so inadequate knowing these things. I didn't know what to say. Mostly I would hold him and say I'm sorry. There is no earasing these atrosities. There is no consoling. My ears were taking in too much. I really did not know what to do for him or for me. We still had to deal with everday ordinary things like the bath, meals, checkers, playing, work and just stuff.
It's better now. Much better. I think he has stepped away from it all. He just visits those places now and then. Of course he was ready to step away the minute he stepped inside. Inside our home, our life. He needed to know his relation to all the family members as soon as he met or heard their name. It was so interesting how quickly he established his place. He was satisfied and comfortable with his spot, almost as if born into it or dropped down onto a soft feathery something that allowed him to gently bounce or float before settling in.
In the beginning he seemed to have become unleashed, free. So free it was scary and out of control. So free, so fast and furious, climbing, jumping, running, flying if he could . Somewhere, anywhere. a couch, a counter, bed, chair, a ledge, a wall, any little brick that protuded had his feet securely planted,klinging desperately to anything anywhereIt didn't matter as long as he was moving He was grasping , reaching, trying to become part of something, anything. I could only watch dumbfounded constantly reminding him and myself that it was my job to keep him safe. It was difficult and I was incompetent. It was too much. The moments were filled with his anxieties and mine. We had to keep moving forward. He had to keep moving, keep talking, endlessly. Every evening bath came with its story. Stories of his mistreatment, his beatings, his severe abuse. The stories were matter-of-fact, present tense and emotionless. It's the way it was for him, it was just the way it was. The belts, table legs, electrical cords, bat, and fist were all devices to deliver the message of control or no control. How could these things be true? Why would anyone think that this was O.K.? Wasn't there someone with the sense to stop it? He never told, he couldn't or else there would be another reason for another beating, maybe the fatal beating. He had to survive, he had to live.
It was almost as if he felt comfort in knowing that a slight slip or misstep would cause the fall , the injury or insult to his already shaken and scared body. Walking a very fine line was the every day, ordinary existence.
It was a battle field . He was the soldier. He was the prisoner. How long could he go without food and water? Not much longer. He had to sneak the water. He had to use the toilet water to prevent dehydration. If they heard the faucet there would be another beating. This little prisoner was in solitary confinement No one to protect him. And for what? What did he do ? What does any 7 year old child do to warrant such a hideous punishment. This little boy, so shaken, battered beaten and scared inside and out, survived the battle. His heart kept it's beat, his breath did not fail. But his memory keeps it and it always will. Bits and pieces seep out now and then. Sometimes the same story, often a new one. What is the future? Can he overcome this abuse. Will he ever really know that it wasn't because he talked in class? Will he ever know that it wasn't his fault? Does he believe me when I say that I love him, or that he is so smart, or funny, or handsome? Is there a remedy for this that will guarantee a strong, stable, self confident man who can handle his emotions?
He seems to be OK. He seems happy. He plays, dances, sings, and he can make me laugh. He testified in front of a grand jury. Afraid, and hiding under the table. but he did it and he is proud that he did. He said they need to be in jail. They do, for a long time.
He is a survivor, to say the least. His story is unbelievable. I don't even know where to begin really. It has been a year and 3 mo since he has been with us so my memory has been somewhat obscured by the present. His memory is doing the same. This is probably a good thing for him and maybe me too.
He had so many events to reveal. He still does but they are less frequent now than in the beginning. He was so matter of fact. I was not capable of responding. I felt so inadequate knowing these things. I didn't know what to say. Mostly I would hold him and say I'm sorry. There is no earasing these atrosities. There is no consoling. My ears were taking in too much. I really did not know what to do for him or for me. We still had to deal with everday ordinary things like the bath, meals, checkers, playing, work and just stuff.
It's better now. Much better. I think he has stepped away from it all. He just visits those places now and then. Of course he was ready to step away the minute he stepped inside. Inside our home, our life. He needed to know his relation to all the family members as soon as he met or heard their name. It was so interesting how quickly he established his place. He was satisfied and comfortable with his spot, almost as if born into it or dropped down onto a soft feathery something that allowed him to gently bounce or float before settling in.
In the beginning he seemed to have become unleashed, free. So free it was scary and out of control. So free, so fast and furious, climbing, jumping, running, flying if he could . Somewhere, anywhere. a couch, a counter, bed, chair, a ledge, a wall, any little brick that protuded had his feet securely planted,klinging desperately to anything anywhereIt didn't matter as long as he was moving He was grasping , reaching, trying to become part of something, anything. I could only watch dumbfounded constantly reminding him and myself that it was my job to keep him safe. It was difficult and I was incompetent. It was too much. The moments were filled with his anxieties and mine. We had to keep moving forward. He had to keep moving, keep talking, endlessly. Every evening bath came with its story. Stories of his mistreatment, his beatings, his severe abuse. The stories were matter-of-fact, present tense and emotionless. It's the way it was for him, it was just the way it was. The belts, table legs, electrical cords, bat, and fist were all devices to deliver the message of control or no control. How could these things be true? Why would anyone think that this was O.K.? Wasn't there someone with the sense to stop it? He never told, he couldn't or else there would be another reason for another beating, maybe the fatal beating. He had to survive, he had to live.
It was almost as if he felt comfort in knowing that a slight slip or misstep would cause the fall , the injury or insult to his already shaken and scared body. Walking a very fine line was the every day, ordinary existence.
It was a battle field . He was the soldier. He was the prisoner. How long could he go without food and water? Not much longer. He had to sneak the water. He had to use the toilet water to prevent dehydration. If they heard the faucet there would be another beating. This little prisoner was in solitary confinement No one to protect him. And for what? What did he do ? What does any 7 year old child do to warrant such a hideous punishment. This little boy, so shaken, battered beaten and scared inside and out, survived the battle. His heart kept it's beat, his breath did not fail. But his memory keeps it and it always will. Bits and pieces seep out now and then. Sometimes the same story, often a new one. What is the future? Can he overcome this abuse. Will he ever really know that it wasn't because he talked in class? Will he ever know that it wasn't his fault? Does he believe me when I say that I love him, or that he is so smart, or funny, or handsome? Is there a remedy for this that will guarantee a strong, stable, self confident man who can handle his emotions?
He seems to be OK. He seems happy. He plays, dances, sings, and he can make me laugh. He testified in front of a grand jury. Afraid, and hiding under the table. but he did it and he is proud that he did. He said they need to be in jail. They do, for a long time.
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