Traditions of Deception

To the receiving hands of the ripped and torn children of the system, foster care and adoption. I have some advice. It is only my opinion so take it or return it. I write this with full knowledge that many won’t agree and I’m fine with that. These are just my thoughts followed by a powerfully written piece from my daughter when she was only five.

Be careful with the traditions of deception. I am not a Scrooge nor am I a religious one who hates costumes and candy. But I have some thoughts on Santa. The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy too for that matter.

In the past 15 years, children have come to my home with broken foundations of trust. They have been lied to, traumatized and played. Physical and emotionally scared in ways that cause me to evaluate the traditions of deception. Ba-Humbug. I know, It all in fun.

Do you remember the age of discovery, the feeling in your belly when you realized there is no Santa. I do not. My family told the history and story of St Nicolaus and played the role of giving in the tradition of old. We hunted eggs and received gifts for our teeth all in the knowing that someone loved us and was delighted to gift us with surprises.

The Holiday tradition of casting a magical character that knows everything and will judge you naughty or nice and give you gifts based on merit, upsets my humanitarian mind. These children have no self-worth, often do not know that they are deserving of any good thing and furthermore, love people who have wronged them and society. It’s a heavy burden to carry. How many crying babies have to endure the traditional Santa pictures when they know full well this isn’t right. They are coaxed and encouraged and expected to put aside the naturally inherited protective fact, all for the traditional photo. You set them on a strangers lap and ask them to tell him what they want. He is a stranger, in a red costume! Freaky

I have been asked so many time as to when is it the right time to tell children that they were adopted? Let that sink in…it is their story. Tell the truth from day one. Do you question as to when to tell your biological children about their truth?

My girl told me this christmas story when she was five. She was secure in her attachment and belonging.

“On a dark winter night a man named Santa Clause came down our chimney. He snatched up Traven and Lillie when our parents were sleeping. He took them to make them work as elves. But one night we snuck out and borrowed his reign deer. Traven rode Rudolph and I rode the crazy one, I can’t remember his name…nope, can’t remember his name, but he was craaaazy. We got on in the night and flew home. I held on tight and said hyah-hyah. It was a crazy ride but we got home safe. We let the reign deer go back home but then Santa noticed that we were gone. He came back to get us and I wacked him with a stick when he came down the chimney. Then he went back to his home and left us alone.” Lillian Sayad

I love her courage I love her wit.

Give your children a foundation of wonder and imagination with a strong identity of truth.

via Daily Prompt: Torn

Misery Loves Company

I went on a walk this morning to get my head on straight. I came home from work last night with a raging desire for destruction. Images played through my mind of swinging a baseball bat through my house and thrashing everything, The sound of windows crashing and treasures falling to the ground while I pummel them with a small pink baseball bat, brings relief to my fractured mind. I take pity on my surroundings and refocus my fantasy to a tree. Yes, that would satisfy my deepest desire, I will beat a tree with a bat. One strike and I would regret it so I curl up in the dark of my room and cover myself with my flannel and down comforter. I am screaming in silence.

I decided to google, “How do I know if I am having a mental breakdown”. Much to my dismay the article made me laugh. I had all of the signs except self-injury and running naked in public. I’m calling sister. If I’m losing it, Im taking her with me.

On Sunday, November 28th, my adult daughter came to my bedside with an urgent phone call from my brother. Mother was having an episode with her heart. She had walked into his room and asked for prayer. She had awakened knowing something was not right. She directed my brother in a prayer covering any darkness or spiritual strong holds and then took in a breath and said she felt much better. She asked to lay back for just a moment to rest and she left us. She died as she has lived, without hesitation and in here own time. She was 78 years young and had just driven herself three hours over a mountain road to get snow tires on her 4 wheel drive pickup. She has changed lives, made her mark and we had plans.

It is not my first loss and it will not be my last. The resiliency of human kind sustains me. I have dear friends that lost their mother at a tender young age. I am looking at them now and I gather courage in the fact that if they can do it, so can I. As I walked this morning, I tossed around the saying, “Misery Loves Company”. Some people may have a negative image of this concept but for me it simply means, “Misery is easier to bear when one is not the only one…”

I was walking a back road near my house and there was another person coming my direction. My first thought was that I wanted this time all to myself, and then I heard her weeping. She gathered her self-control long enough to walk past and then continued. I offered a silent prayer and gave her my deepest respect and more importantly the shelter of an uninterrupted moment.

I get up everyday and try to wrap my head around living with out my mom, I do find courage in others who are doing this thing called life after enduring the hardest of times. I have been listening to Bonnie Raitt, “Dimming of The day” I awakened sing this to mom the first night she left me…It has become my anthem.

Once Had a Mom

My mom passed from this world on November 28th. She lived as she died, with out hesitation and in her own time.

I will reflect on her life later but for today I share something from 2009.

My Dog, Shaw
January 20, 2009
Four days after my pup, Shaw, arrived in California we travel to the high mountain valley that we call home. There was almost 5 feet of snow. We settle into the house where dogs are usually not invited. Shaw, being such a baby has not known this as home, there has been made an acception. I show him his spot on a rug and pray he doesn’t pittle on the floor. My dad is terminal with cancer. He has been a fisherman, a cattle man, and a horse and dog trainer. He wants to know my dog. This is a test for me and mine… There is a young shepard that is well trained and knows the boundaries, she is a good teacher. She shows him the ways and he livens things up for this shepard with an old soul. My dad put out his hand to my dog and to my surprise, he snaps and bites my dads finger. Dads reply, “That little sh*t bit me.” He doesn’t hold it against my dog but I quickly return him to his spot an a rug. Later Shaw returns to my dad, I watch closely while he settles at his feet. As I reflect I am reminded of the cancer, I to wish I could bite at this unknown that is ravishing my dad. Shaw has self corrected and I am pleased. He returns several time to lay at my dads cold and swollen feet. My mom really likes dogs and would like a companion of her own. Shaw shows her no attention and she is trying to make up to him. Later I look around and he is not on his rug nor is he at my dads feet. My mom has had her way. She has been sneaking him meat scraps in the kitchen and now he is laying just out of the way watching her. Not begging, but knowing that this is where the heart of the home is and here he has found the love of his belly. My mom does not look up, she knows I would not approve of my dog in the kitchen, but she also knows I will not correct her ways. She says to me in a soft voice, you have brought us a camp dog… (written 2/08)

Shaw is my walking and hiking companion…he has turned out just fine.