Recently my daughter and I had a date night.  I had a couple of ideas for the evening, but when we drove by a local bowling alley, the sign caught her attention, and our plans quickly changed.  We grabbed shoes and got her the lightest ball they had, and soon we were ready to play the game.  I am competitive by nature, and while I understand that it is inappropriate, I really wanted to a) get lots of strikes and spares, and b) not be beaten by a kid.  So, I picked out just the right ball, bowled a warm-up frame or two, and figured out just exactly where I needed to aim to knock down the most pins. 

Let the games begin!

Somewhere around the 5th frame, I remembered that this was supposed to be an opportunity to build relationship with my kiddo, and that I should not focus quite so much on getting the pins down and a little more on enjoying time with my daughter (embarrassing to say, but unfortunately true…).  So I began to watch her a little more closely.  She was a terribly inconsistent bowler.  One ball would be right down the middle of the lane and knock down several pins, the next would be in the gutter.  But the more I watched, the more fascinated I became with her reaction, no matter what the result.

Celebration.  Exuberance.  Excitement.  Joy.

Gutter ball or strike.  Didn’t matter if she knocked down one pin or all the pins.  She was excited about every small achievement, every tiny improvement on her score.  It was being in the game together that made her happy.

I spend a lot of time with parents whose children are in foster care.  And I have lots of ideas about what they should be achieving and how they should be behaving.  You need to get a certain kind of job.  You need to have a better home.  You need to get yourself mentally healthy.  You need to be a better parent.  You need to be more responsible.  You need to visit your kids more reliably.  You need to pass your drug screen all the time.  And while those things may very well all be true, what is also true is that I don’t celebrate with them nearly enough.  I complain about the visit missed and don’t celebrate the one made.  I gripe if they don’t parent as well as I want them to.  I write them off if they struggle with relapsing into their addictions.  I judge them on every aspect of life, and I do not stop to celebrate what is accomplished.  In the face of terrible odds – poverty, poor social supports, addiction, depression, hopelessness – we should be amazed that some moms and dads can manage to get out of bed in the morning.  Perhaps I should learn to celebrate the fact that we are even in the game together. 

And for those who are interested?  105-103 – mom wins:)

Have you ever been somewhere that you shouldn’t have been?  Most of the time the outcome isn’t so hot, but this time was different.  On this day, I wasn’t supposed to be at work, wasn’t supposed to be seeing patients.  Didn’t even have my “doctor” clothes on.  But there I was. 

Her mom was concerned she might have a ringworm.  I took a quick glance at the petite 4 year old’s forearm and confirmed that, quickly explaining to the mom how to treat it effectively.  It should have been time to leave the room.  But for whatever reason, I stayed.  The mom looked older than me (at least in my mind ), but it turned out she was a couple of years younger.  She had 6 kids – the first was born when she was only a kid herself.  They had been in foster care for several years, but were now back with her, and soon DHS would sign off on her as a mom. 

At that point in the conversation, perhaps a normal person with manners and social grace would have just stopped – congratulated her and bowed out of the conversation.  But I couldn’t help myself.  I was compelled to know the whole story - to know HER.  She had been on drugs – painkillers, then marijuana, and finally methamphetamine.  The guys she hung out with were mean, but they supplied her drug habit.  Eventually it caught up with her and the kids were picked up.  She was devastated, but she was also addicted.  For two more years she was unsuccessful in her struggle against it.  Then she began to break free.  Went through rehab – ALL the way through.  Then a half-way house.  Then outpatient counseling.  Then she found a job.  Then she got an apartment.  Then she got her kids back.

What?  How did that happen?  The story doesn’t usually have a happy ending? What is your secret?

My parents believed in me.  My friend believed in me.  My counselor believed in me.  My new boss believed in me. 

When we begin to see people for who they were created to be, instead of who they are on the surface, it is easier to believe in them.  And when WE believe in them, it is easier for them to begin to believe in themselves.  I want to believe in people.  In their potential.  In the possibilities of their lives.  In the awareness that a bad decision is not the same thing as a bad person.  In the knowledge that we all make mistakes and none of us is perfect.  In the hope that the future can be different than the past.

“You are an overcomer!” I said.  Her eyes met mine, and she smiled.  And on the day when I wasn’t supposed to be there, I was blessed enough to witness something miraculous – a family together again.  Hope rising from ashes.  Sure glad I went by the office.

My best work gets done late at night or early in the morning when the kids, dogs, and husband are all in bed and the house is quiet.  I count on that time.  I need that time.  This morning, my 4 year old was up before the dawn, and I heard the words she has said so many times before, “I wan’ you, mommy.”  I was too busy – needed to work.

Watch cartoons.  Play with your doll.  Draw a picture.

She could be distracted for brief periods, but not for long.  Frustration was evident in my voice.  “Leave me alone for 5 more minutes, and then I will hold you.”  Five was probably more like 10, but once the project was successfully saved on my computer, I looked up, expecting a warm hug and a little cuddle time.  But she was gone – not interested in me anymore.  She had given up on trying to get my attention.

I met a little girl who reminded me of my daughter.  She was new to foster care – it had only been a couple of days.  She tried to be stoic, but that didn’t last long, and she melted into tears and cries for her mom.  I pulled her into my lap, and she rested her head on my shoulder, sobbing quietly while I held her.  After a few minutes she climbed down, leaving behind some tears on my shirt sleeve.  I cried too – not publicly – but in my soul.  Cried for the little girl who was separated from her mom by physical space.  And I cried for my own little girl, who at least for today was separated from her mom by emotional space.

Tomorrow I have to do better.

Over my years of interacting with kids in foster care, I have had a few rare occasions where in the course of conversation, kids were willing to expose their hearts and share their deepest emotions.  Sometimes that was in a verbal form, more often in sharing a written page or a picture.  When that happens I feel like I am on holy ground, in a place where few if any others have been allowed to enter.  I am deeply respectful of what they have allowed me to share with them, and I want to give you a glimpse into the soul of children who have been abused, neglected, abandoned. 

There is anger, but also joy.  Turmoil, but also peace.  Despair, but also hope. 

Journal Entry #1

The world sees my smile.  No one sees what is hidden inside me.  Something is missing in my heart.  Even though I know you love me and that love is always there, I miss being close to you.  I miss your hugs and your voice.  I look like I am doing OK, but inside I am falling apart because you aren’t here.  The only thing keeping me together is knowing that tomorrow everything could change and we could be together.