A Letter of Apology

A letter of apology, to my oldest daughter--

Dear one, I owe you an apology.  And I am very, very sorry.

There are so many places where I fall short in the eyes of the world or in the eyes I see in the mirror.

I am afraid when I should be brave.  I don't write enough.  Our house gets messy, and I fall behind on the laundry.  You know I hate to cook, so we eat out too much.  I have trouble saving our money, and we have more debt than we should.  I don't work out enough.  I eat too much ice cream.  I stay up too late.  And I sleep in too long.  I watch more TV than is healthy, and I let you do the same.  I don't spend as much time with Daddy as he deserves.  I choose other things over spending time in prayer and reading my Bible.  I yell at you for crazy things.  I have a hard time controlling my temper.  I don't like vegetables.

But somewhere along the line I did you a disservice.  Somewhere, somehow, I let you believe that those things are how I see myself.  I let you believe that I don't think I'm enough.  And then, that translated into you believing you aren't enough.

And, oh, my precious one.  You are.

You.

Are.

Enough.

You have those beautiful blue eyes and a great smile that makes them disappear.  I love your apple cheeks everyone says are mine.  You are smart and funny and caring.  You live up to your name because, like grace, you can make beauty out of ugly things.

I still remember when your preschool friend Lily's baby brother died right after he was born.  You waited for Lily to come back to preschool, and when she did, you held her hand and sat by her.  Because she needed you.  You were three, Baby.  Three.  But that shouldn't be a surprise, because I remember how you looked at Jerry lying in his casket when you were less than one year old.  You probably thought he was sleeping, except you looked at him like you saw him differently than the rest of us did.  And then you turned to Miss Nancy, and you reached for her to give her the love you had tucked in your tiny baby heart.  And, just last month, I watched you work through your frustration to figure out how to draw an elephant just in case you needed to remind our family that you have their backs.  Nobody loves more than you do, honey.

I love how much you love Ivy and your friends and reading and messy rooms and Marie Grace and Trixie Belden and sleeping in and riding your bike and Paris and not working hard.  I love that you don't like to fly but you still want to see the world and go to France some day.  I love getting to know the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

And I am sorry for not telling you that enough.  Because I am proud of who you are.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your mom.

You are enough, Baby Girl.  Enough.  And you always will be, no matter what.

I wish I could see myself through your eyes, and I wish you could see yourself through mine.  Then you would sit up tall.  And you would take on the world like a mighty warrior.  Like a beautiful, mighty warrior.  Like a girl who loves like no one else can.  And you would proud to be you.

Processing a Processing Disorder

My pastor recently sent me an interesting article questioning whether Sensory Processing Disorders are a true medical diagnosis. It's a condition I have talked about before, and one that my husband and I are seeing in our middle daughter as well. The article is worth reading, even if it raises a point that ruffles some feathers, including mine. Sensory Processing Disorders are not widely recognized, and I have a friend who had to fight for a while to get her child diagnosed. Even then, insurance may do little or nothing to treat its symptoms, and there is no cure. 

Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance.  Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did. 

So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition. 

Right? 

Still, I found this interesting: 

In 2012, the American Academy of Pediatrics claimed it is unclear whether children with sensory problems have a distinct disorder or whether their challenges are linked with other disorders such as autism, ADHD, and anxiety. It urged doctors to caution parents that the effectiveness of sensory integration treatments are "limited and inconclusive."

While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD.  I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning.  It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano.  In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum."  And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD.  So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD.  So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state?  Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD?  And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues?  Hence the problem.

What I do know is that the therapies we've tried DO generally work, and it IS a matter of finding what works for yourself or your child.  But, boy oh boy, it's easy to be overstimulated in this fast-paced world.  I can't imagine trying to diagnose this or get insurance companies to determine what or how much to pay for it.  It's rather like diagnosing post-traumatic stress disorder.  Each of us is capable of handling different stressors . . . and we all have bad days.  So is someone with PTSD weak or depressed or just dramatic?  Or is it real and does it deserve disability payments and therapy?  How do you measure that degree and then assign a dollar value to treating it or compensating for it?

I understand why the psychiatric establishment isn't ready to rewrite the DSM just yet.  But I hope they're investing the time and the research dollars to explore it and helping families who haven't yet found what it takes to cope.

The Most Important Lesson We Can Learn

I have three beautiful and amazing girls.  They like to giggle together.  They like to snuggle with each other.  They like to play Little People together.  And they love to fight.  Around my house, there is a lot of playing noise that quickly turns into yelling and screaming noise.  And then crying.  And then (usually when they've been reminded), there is a quiet and sad noise:

"I'm sorry."

Immediately following, and always unprompted, there is an equally quiet and sad noise:

"I forgive you."

The volume and the emotion behind it generally suggests that while not all is forgotten, and the pain still exists, the offense is forgiven.  It won't come between them anymore.  And, within minutes, they are giggling together.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.

I work at a children's advocacy center.  We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.  National statistics tell us that 90% of the children who are sexually abused are victimized by people they know, love, and trust.  In the county where I live, it is closer to 99%.  We're talking fathers, stepfathers, mothers, cousins, Dad's best friend, step siblings, babysitters.  The other day, the mom of one of our clients was speaking with a group of people.  She said, "My daughter is an inspiration to me.  She teaches us all so much.  And I know the biggest reason for her freedom and joy is something that she is teaching me: she forgave the man who did this to her." 

She forgave the man who did this to her.  She forgave the dear family friend who sexually abused her when he thought she was sleeping.

At the same time, there is a couple I know who are in the process of getting divorced.  The reason?  She had an affair.

I understand that having someone cheat on you is a horrible thing.  The betrayal, the disappointment, the fear, the rejection.  It is, according to many people I know, unforgivable.

And, in the case of this couple, it destroyed their marriage.  Or did it?  You see, she had her affair--and ended it--at least fifteen years ago.  She came clean to her husband, they recommitted themselves each to their marriage and each other, and they moved past it.  Or so she thought.

What really ended their marriage?  Not forgiving.  When he asked her to leave, he told her it was because he had never forgiven her for what she did fifteen years ago.  Talk about betrayal, disappointment, fear, and rejection.  Can you imagine believing that the man you love has extended grace and forgiveness--which you, self admittedly, did not deserve--only to find out that he has held on for fifteen years?  That slowly, his deception has been eating away at the vows you took before God and your family and friends?

That's what not forgiving does.  In Traveling Mercies Anne Lamott wrote, "Not forgiving is like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die."  Amen.  And then amen again.

Not forgiving destroys marriages.  It robs joy.  It erases freedom.  It brings a slow and painful death.

Forgiving brings life.  It causes joy and delivers freedom.  It's hard.  And it may be quiet and sad, because it's not easy, and the pain is still there.  But, it says that nothing will come between us. 

Spend a few hours at our house, and you will learn many lessons.  You will learn how a small person with mere inches of water in the bathtub can make every square inch of the bathroom wet.  You will learn that ketchup, cheese, mayo, pickles, and two slices of bread make a terrific lunch.  You will learn how to giggle, transform plastic tubs into cars, and use Mom's cell phone to watch Curious George.  You will also learn how to apologize.  And, most importantly, you will learn how to forgive.

Why Am I Watching This?!

Beau thinks I have too many TV shows on our DVR (it's possible that's true, but it should be noted that there is still 79% remaining space, so he can record 334 hours of TV), so I'm working hard to watch what I have there.  This is all happening while another show is recording, so I'm positive I'm defeating the purpose here, but it's the thought, right?

Tonight's show of choice: Killer Kids on Bio.  This particular episode is "Family Killers," and I recorded it several weeks ago.  For obvious reasons, I have been putting off watching it--mostly I just didn't feel like ending the day with such a heavy subject.  I have no idea what made me turn it on tonight, but I did.  And now I'm glued to it.

True crime is my favorite genre of book, film, and television show.  I've always been fascinated by the glimpse into the mind of the criminals and the motives behind the crime.  I think there is never just one motive, and I think that very few crimes happen with absolutely no warning signs.  In the murder cases that they have featured on this show, all of that is true.  But warning signs are always easy to see in the rear view mirror.

Teenagers are some of my favorite people, too.  I love the angsty, sullen attitudes they adopt at that age.  I love their honesty.  I love them.  They make my heart sing, and they make my heart break.

Killer Kids.  What a horrific thought.  These kids are all teenagers--12, 13, 16--who snapped on a given afternoon or evening and murdered their families, always beginning with their parents.  Obviously that's wrong.  I'm not going to dispute that--there comes a point where you have to take ownership of your actions, and I think you can begin to do that at a very young age.  These kids were all out of line, and they needed to be punished.

But what makes a kid a killer?  Sometimes there is a psychiatric break, but for these kids that wasn't the case.  For these kids there was a premeditated moment where they decided the best option would be to kill their parents, "driven by mindless rage . . . disconnected from himself and with no feelings for those he is mowing down" (taken from the narrator's remarks in the show).  The show goes on to ask that same question: if there isn't any mental break, how can we make sense of why this happened?  I'm just not sure we can.

The only thing I can see is that none of these kids had a good relationship with their parents.  At least one of their parents is overly controlling.  There isn't a lot of grace.  There isn't room to be themselves, to be creative, to make mistakes, to be kids. 

God, it is hard to be a parent.  It is hard to lay down rules for safety and to teach children responsibility.  It is hard to be gracious and forgiving, especially in the middle of the daily frustrations of being disobeyed and disrespected.  It is hard to love unconditionally in the midst of angsty, sullen attitudes and hurtful raging.  But they need us to do it.  They need us to love them and forgive them and give them rules and discipline them and hold them and cry with them and talk to them.  Give us the strength to do it.

And, man, I am glad these murders took place in Canada and Norway, and kids in the United States don't do stuff like this.

Quit Playing Games With Our Kids

{Steps onto soap box.}

An email came across my desk at work last week.  It noted $20 million in funds for the Victims of Child Abuse Act that had been excluded from the FY13 budget as proposed by President Obama.  For the first time since 1994, there was to be no funding for the National Children's Alliance, which means a cut in program support for every accredited children's advocacy center in the country (including the Children's Assessment Center, which is my day job) and virtually no funds allocated for emerging centers in counties where they don't yet exist.  Then, on Monday evening, another email came through.  This one stated that the FY13 budget further proposes to reallocate $365 million in funds from the Victims of Crime Act, which would mean cuts to--and possible elimination of--services for crime victims all across the country.  In Kent County alone that means a number of cuts to children: victim witness programs, domestic violence shelters, and the Center's counseling and victim advocacy services.  The real kicker is that the funds are paid through criminal fines and penalties and don't affect the size of the federal budget at all.  It is proposed that they will be used to pay for other line items in the budget outside of true crime victim services.

As we talked about it internally and formulated our response, our pleas to Representative Amash and Senators Stabenow (who has signed on to save the Victims of Child Abuse Act funds at least) and Levin, and our rallying cries to our donors, one thing kept coming up. 

"You know this is just a game, right?  It's political gamesmanship.  It's an election year.  Nobody is really going to cut our child victims of crimes out of the budget this year--but they will use them to get other earmarks they want."

I know this is likely.  I know it has been proposed before (by Bush, so let's not get too self righteous, friends), and there were no cuts.  But I also know that if we lost all of our funds from these two sources, that would mean eliminating our counseling and our victim advocacy and limiting our forensic interviews.  It would mean hacking out a third of our budget.  It's too big of a risk to take.

So I spent most of Tuesday formulating all of our responses and rallying everyone I know.  Every other email on the NCA listserv has been updates on who signed on and who didn't.  We've had conversations about face-to-face meetings with our representative and whether it is more likely that our senators will read a letter or an email.  We've also talked about whether we should combine the issues into one email or leave them separate and just send two responses to each person.  We should have been spending that time on our kids.  On raising new money.  On making new donor contacts.  On completing paperwork from another interview with a child who had been sexually abused.  But instead we spent hours on this--and have continued to spend hours more--because we can't take the risk that this is just gamesmanship.

Ridiculous.  Appalling.  Quit using our kids as pawns in a game that they don't care about.  They just want help.  They want the bad guys to be locked up.  They want to sleep safely at night.  They want their nightmares to go away.  They want to laugh and play like children should.

If you want to help, please do the following:
* Send your representative a letter asking him or her to sign the House Dear Colleague letter sponsored by Rep. Danny Davis (D-7th) of IL to fund the Victims of Child Abuse Act at $20 million for FY13.

* Send your senators a letter asking them to sign the Dear Colleague letter sponsored by Sen. Kerry (MA-D) and Sen. Baucus (MT-D) in support of funding the Victims of Child Abuse Act at $20 million for FY13.

* Send your representative and senators a letter asking them NOT to use money for victims of crime as a revenue base for its FY13 budget by asking for a $1 billion VOCA cap in FY13. Because the Crime Victims Fund comes entirely from criminal fines and other penalties—not taxpayer dollars—this cap DOES NOT ADD to the national debt or deficit.

{Thanks you for your time, and steps down from soap box.}

Kids Today (or, Back When I Was a Kid)

I am privileged to teach Sunday School for the 7th-12th graders at our church.  It's a privilege every week, and most Sundays it's fun too.  :)  (Kidding.  Mostly.)  The students in my class, like most teenagers, come in varying degrees of communication, enthusiasm, and participation.  They are a beautiful and lovely group.

Our curriculum this year is the Heidelberg Catechism.  A couple of weeks ago I had prepared a lesson that I knew would be more fun with as many participants as we could get--plus I'd purchased a lot of candy for it, and I didn't want to have the extras at my house.  Since there were only three students in class that day, I decided that we would have a chat session instead of using our normal lesson. 

I asked my students two questions:
1) What issues--social, person, etc.--would you like to talk about this year?
2) What do you wish adults knew (or remembered) about being teenagers?

As I was introducing our topics, it occurred to me that though I'm not old it has been longer since I've been a teenager than it took me to get there.  I mean, I graduated from college 13 years ago.  Craziness.  It also occurred to me that perhaps the problem we're having with our curriculum being relevant is the fact that it was written by people who had been teenagers even longer ago than I was.  Nothing against adults, but I began to wonder how life had changed since then and how we as adults could speak to that unless we understood it.  So we spent an hour talking about it.

Here's what I learned:
* High school teachers today sound more like college professors.  Students get syllabi from every class, and teachers allow different things in class--some allow notetaking on computers, some allow you to ask questions, some just want you to sit like a bump on a log and absorb their lecture.
* Still not everyone is offered drugs.  I wasn't, though I had some friends who smoked pot, and it was interesting for me to hear that that's still true.  However, I was shocked to find out that there are teenagers walking through the halls at their schools with mushrooms hanging out of their backpacks.  They use meth, too.  And instead of cigarettes it's pot they're smoking in the bathrooms.
* Kissing in the hallways isn't the whole issue anymore.  Students at local high schools have been caught having sex--yes, having sex--in the hallways and on the middle of the dance floor at prom.

We ran out of time before we got much further.  After class they mentioned a couple of other things they'd like to talk about, including homosexuality.  (That should be an interesting experience, and I've already selected some guest speakers to deal with it so that I don't get myself in trouble by not wearing my traditional church filter that day.)  Apparently there are lots of kids in schools today who are gay--and there are lots of kids who are homophobic.  That makes for interesting hallway experiences.  I can't imagine being a student today.

So . . . how does one who was a teenager nearly 20 years ago relate to a world so different than where I lived?  Kids today.  They're lovely and giving and beautiful and honest and it's a privilege to be trusted by them.  God--and the church--has His hands full with them, and I can't wait to see how they change His world.  I hope I don't mess them up.

Giving Them Back

This morning I started the book of I Samuel.  As a mother, I am always moved to read of Hannah's longing for a child.  She is picked on, mocked, and driven to great depression over her barrenness.  She begs, pleads, and cries out to God.  Her agony in the temple was so intense that the priest even believes she must be drunk--nobody sober would act like that before God.

God hears her, and he grants her deepest desire.  He gives her not only a child but a son.  The part I so often miss in the story is that she said to God, "[Give me a son, and] I'll give him completely, unreservedly to you."  And then she does just that.  This woman who, more than anything in the world, wanted a child, gets one, and then leaves him in the temple to grow up. 

As a mother, it's hard to imagine.  As a Christian who struggles on my sojourn, it's even harder to comprehend.  First of all, she makes a promise to God--and then she keeps it.  Even when it must have destroyed part of her to do so.  How often do I want something badly, and I say to God, "If you just give me this, then I'll X"?  Whether the "X" is be happy, tell everyone what you did, never ask for anything more, not screw it up . . . whatever it is, how often do I really do it?  I can answer that for you: almost never. 

But as a mother . . . as a mother who has never had trouble conceiving, as a mother who conceived twins only to have one die, as a mother who is often overwhelmed by my three living children, as a mother who still grieves the (now) two-year-old baby I long to hold in my arms . . . how do you long for a child, have it long enough to wean it, and then drop it off at the temple to live? 

Now, this isn't like it would be for us.  We go to church at the end of our road.  There are plenty of days that I think it might be nice to drop by kids off at Pastor Tim and "Miss Ruth's" house for a while.  Shoot, there are days that I do that (and thanks for generously taking them Ruthie!)--for a few hours at least.  But I can always go pick them up, and the trip takes me only about 1 minute.  Five if I walk.  For Hannah it's a long journey that she takes once a year.  Huh?  How do you do that?  How do you long for something to the point of your heart breaking and then turn it completely over to God?

But then how do you not?

I remember once in college when I was going off with my Christian fellowship group to do some evangelism thing that made my dad pretty nervous.  He sent me a letter after we discussed it on the phone, and his letter is something that I'll keep forever.  In it he wrote, "We have always known that you aren't our child.  You are God's.  And we knew the time would come when He took you places that we didn't understand and didn't like.  But you are His.  You were never ours to keep."

As a mom I'm grateful that I get to see my children nearly every day.  I'm grateful that I don't have to send them miles and miles away and see them only once a year for them to truly be God's.  But I also know that just as my sweet Baby Zion is sitting on God's lap and belongs solely to Him, Ellie Grace, Meggity Leigh, and DeeDee also belong solely to God.  They may not be literally sitting on His lap, but they are held in the palm of His hand.  They are no less His than Zion is, than I am.  While they may live in my house for a time and in my heart forever, they have never really been mine. 

So, yes.  I have longed for them to the point of my heart breaking.  I have watched out for them and cared for them and loved them to the point of my heart breaking.  But I have also--and need to continue to--given them completely over to God.  Today may I care for them as children that God has entrusted to me, and women who will change this world forever because of their Father, and sisters who will sojourn Home alongside me and the rest of our brothers and sisters.  Today may I see them as they are: dedicated to God for life.

Baby, don't ever let anyone cheapen you.

Let's get something out in the open right away: having a baby is never cheap.

There is research that puts the cost of raising a child near $200,000, not including college. It really is worth every penny, but that doesn't mean it isn't shocking. I'm due today, but our beautiful daughter decided to take it upon herself (or my Alaskan Seattle friend paid her off!) to arrive two weeks early. That means that yesterday, the eve of her "birth," we received our first of at least three bills related to her.

$1,729.70.

In August, just 11 short weeks before our expected arrival, BeauDon took a new job, which meant new insurance. Through the grace of God the former insurance carried us through the dreaded COBRA period and right up until the new insurance took effect on October 1. That saved us nearly $1,200 in out-of-pocket (and nonreimbursable) expenses. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

That said, the new insurance just isn't as good as the old. Say what you want about Former Job, but the coverage was decent. I do have to say that Current Job coverage is better than nothing (WAY better), but we do now have a $2,500 deductible. Then we have to pay 20% of our bills, up to another $2,500. Nobody wants to anticipate delivery of a newborn knowing it is likely they will be billed $5,000. Thank goodness for HSA accounts and Current Job's generous seed money in said account! Now that we have (at minimum) reached our deductible, everyone in the family is invited to get sick and/or need some sort of medical care. Commence all elective surgeries and medical treatment (ahem and sorry, BeauDon).

$1,729.70. Yeah. Even with the HSA, we're going to need a while to pay that off. (Baby girl, does anyone else think it's excessive to charge us $1,390.00 for the nursery you were in for less than two hours?)

This is only bill number one, you say? Of three, you say? And the next one will be more? That would be the true reason I don't get an epidural. I'm too Dutch to pay for it.

Ah, well. When we're all cold again next winter because our tax return had to pay you off instead of buy new windows, we'll just snuggle you extra tight, young one.

The silver lining:
Today's call to billing services revealed that our account has not yet been adjusted to reflect the discounted rate we're eligible for through our insurance company.

So, darling Addie Maye . . . never let anyone cheapen you. Except maybe the insurance company.