Summer
June was a slow month full of lots of down time (as well as productivity at work and with my writing). S was home alone a lot of the time--a first for her--but I was able to get home each day by around 1 p.m., so we were still getting quality time together. I was letting go a little, realizing how desperately she needed some unstructured time, and although she often didn't make the best decisions, she certainly wasn't making unsafe ones--and we were able to process and she to learn, at least to some extent, from the decisions she made that weren't the best.
But July--wow, it was a whole different story.
Suddenly mid-July was here, and we were preparing for S's dance camp. She would be attending a week-long arts camp, in the dance program. I talked with the teachers and camp director beforehand, and we made arrangements to ensure that she would have a safe, encouraging environment and that I would be able to support her by being nearby. We shared a room in the dorm, and I would volunteer in the kitchen and be on call in case any challenges occurred.
It was a hard week. She wasn't, of course, ready to dance for seven or eight hours a day, or to be around peers after a full month of essentially doing whatever she wanted, mostly by herself. I had an infected foot, which did, eventually, heal--but still, I was in pain for much of the time. I was also working for 6 or more hours each day in the kitchen, which is much fewer hours than the regular staff worked (up to 12 or 14). I worked with a teacher and a CNA who needed the extra summer cash and a bunch of evangelical college students--as well as a saxaphone-playing, comedy-writer-video gamer type who was the cook. It was, needless to say, and incredibly surreal week. I was asked whether I had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, ridiculed for not knowing the best way to cut a watermelon, told I had "real skills in the kitchen," and encouraged to perform YMCA for the campers--all in the same typical day.
Camp is strange. I went to church camp every year as a kid, but it was all about bonding over culture and religion and going to deep emotional places and learning who I was--this camp was all about performance and forced fun, and there was a sort of military feel to it. The kids had to line up a half hour before each meal, for instance, and then they had to all eat in half an hour. The counselors in our cabin told the girls they both came from military families, and they treated the girls like little soldiers, barking out rules, refusing to unlock the doors of the cabin except when it was convenient for them, and shouting things like "everybody needs to be in bed in five minutes," causing fights over showers, among other things. I swear I remember pigging out with my camp counselors the night before communion and watching the clock to make sure we stopped eating at midnight, and staying up most of the night talking about important teenage things--but maybe I'm imagining this, or maybe arts camp and church camp are nothing alike. Either way...
S did OK, but for the first half of the week, she was obsessed with getting into, and winning, the talent show. When the performers were posted, she had a meltdown, a major one that involved cussing and screaming and crying and wandering around refusing to listen to anyone, and we had to leave camp for the evening. But after a dinner in town and some intense conversations which were the beginning of her realization that she was not going to be a ballet dancer as a career, she was back at it, determined to learn the recital dances and finish off the week.
I did have a realization, though, in the few hours I had free when I had time to pray and read and write. S is not ready to be in 11th grade, and yet holding her back is also not an option. She's not ready, really, to be an adult, is the problem. Of course, I always knew this--knew she'd be living with me way past 18, knew she'd need hands-on parenting for much longer. Still, the talent show incident somehow solidified this for me. Once I got past my own sadness--I haven't been able to teach her the coping skills she needs to be able to handle disappointments like this one, or to recognize her own abilities and potential--I realized it's going to take a lot longer for her to learn these things, and that I have to figure out, in the meantime, how I will continue to raise her when, after high school, I no longer receive adoption support checks.
I also realized in those quiet times away from our home and small town and my job that I can't go on much longer living this life. I am ready to move on. I need to start pursuing the career I know I really want and that these many years have prepared me to take on, and I'm going to need to be brave enough to make the switch. I really want to start the "Healing Ranch" that S and I dreamed about, innocently, when she first came--a safe place people can come to heal. The vision has become sharper and clearer over the last two years, as have some of the steps I would need to take--but the big impetus is going to be actually being brave enough to work toward this, being able to overcome all my doubts and fears.
I had some time to look back over my life, and to think some more about my writing career (or, rather, lack thereof). Even during graduate school, I realized that my career path would not involve the typical "publish or perish" life, and in a way, I've lived exactly that dream--found a way to use what I learned in graduate school to create a career and life for myself that really utilizes many of my gifts. But, at the same time, I've neglected my own work, and I'm beginning to long for it again, for the long hours of writing and rewriting, even for the desire of others reading my work, something I haven't longed for in many years.
I realized, too, that while I really, truly, did not want the tenure track life, I also have, due to fear and avoidance, not sent out my work for a long time. Even if I'm not interested in traditional publishing venues, getting my work out where people can read and be inspired by it is important. And, I owe it to the amazing people I met in 2005 when I took a research trip to Greece for a writing project to finish--well, something. I lost a novel to a computer crash, but that's not really any excuse. I know I can do better than what I had, anyway, and I have a good first draft of a play. I need to finish it, and figure out how to bring it life--I have to stop avoiding this desire and need.
So, strangely, despite the military atmosphere and how difficult life was for S during the week we were at camp, it proved also to be a fruitful week for me, and an important one. Literally two days after returning, we were in the cities for S's birthday, where my aunt who raised me--her grandmother--met us for a few fun-filled days of shopping. OK, I'm not a big shopper, but it was fun to be around them, and it was one of the most enjoyable family visits in quite some time.
And then, just a few days later, S's brothers arrived. Yes, brothers. A, who is 1 1/2 years younger than her, has recently been adopted by a man in another state; she hadn't seen him for two years, and even prior to moving here, she only saw him once a month or so. B, her youngest brother, now 13, just had his adoption disrupted--I can't get a straight story about it, only that the foster mother is now trying to get him back. S had not seen him in more than five years. In a strange turn of events, the social workers and his new foster parents felt B needed this reunion, and suddenly, he appeared in my backyard, waving madly, running into S's arms. Within minutes, they were talking about how they share ESP and other special powers, and then, rather suddenly, about their abuse. B said, "You were such a good sister. You always tried to keep us safe."
"I didn't do enough," S said, tears welling up in her eyes.
"You did the best you could, though," said B, and I don't think she needed to hear any words more than those.
After they talked awhile about their abuse--me interjecting to tell them it was going to be OK, that they were survivors, that telling these stories were part of their healing--and, finally, cutting off the conversation when S said, "I have to stop now, I'm overwhelmed"--they went on to tease each other about crushes and run wildly around the house, chasing the dog.
It was beautiful.
Late at night, A and his father F arrived, and A joined right in, joking around, acting silly. F was exhausted, so we called it a night after an hour or so--but my first impression of him was very good. I realized, with a wave of gratitude unlike any I have ever experienced, that he had been the one who first suggested this amazing trip, and the one who had asked if B could come along. I couldn't stop staring at them--their mannerisms, their positive and negative behaviors, all so similar.
The rest of the week was full of activity--fishing, swimming, shopping, amusement park visiting, and more. We had such an incredible time. A remembers almost nothing from their childhood--I suspect that, now that he heard parts of what happened from his siblings, he will be going through the dark night of the soul that S went through six months ago, hopefully before he turns 18.
B asked me, over and over, if I would adopt him. It was heartbreaking to have to tell him I couldn't. I really bonded with him. He's an incredibly fiesty and oppositional kid, much like S was when she first arrived--but he's also wicked smart, and so sweet when he wants to be. There were a couple very difficult incidents when we had to intervene to keep him or other people safe because he was prone to impulsive and violent behaviors. But, overall, the trip was an incredible success, even though saying goodbye was heartbreaking.
I loved them all, and it was impossible to say goodbye. The last two days since they left, I've been operating in a kind of fog, nervous about how much I still need to do before classes start, sad that the excitement of this crazy month is over, but also grateful to be able to focus on the school year and routines beginning again.
That's summer, in a nutshell! And now that I have adequately (though not very poetically) updated this blog, it's time for bed!
But July--wow, it was a whole different story.
Suddenly mid-July was here, and we were preparing for S's dance camp. She would be attending a week-long arts camp, in the dance program. I talked with the teachers and camp director beforehand, and we made arrangements to ensure that she would have a safe, encouraging environment and that I would be able to support her by being nearby. We shared a room in the dorm, and I would volunteer in the kitchen and be on call in case any challenges occurred.
It was a hard week. She wasn't, of course, ready to dance for seven or eight hours a day, or to be around peers after a full month of essentially doing whatever she wanted, mostly by herself. I had an infected foot, which did, eventually, heal--but still, I was in pain for much of the time. I was also working for 6 or more hours each day in the kitchen, which is much fewer hours than the regular staff worked (up to 12 or 14). I worked with a teacher and a CNA who needed the extra summer cash and a bunch of evangelical college students--as well as a saxaphone-playing, comedy-writer-video gamer type who was the cook. It was, needless to say, and incredibly surreal week. I was asked whether I had a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, ridiculed for not knowing the best way to cut a watermelon, told I had "real skills in the kitchen," and encouraged to perform YMCA for the campers--all in the same typical day.
Camp is strange. I went to church camp every year as a kid, but it was all about bonding over culture and religion and going to deep emotional places and learning who I was--this camp was all about performance and forced fun, and there was a sort of military feel to it. The kids had to line up a half hour before each meal, for instance, and then they had to all eat in half an hour. The counselors in our cabin told the girls they both came from military families, and they treated the girls like little soldiers, barking out rules, refusing to unlock the doors of the cabin except when it was convenient for them, and shouting things like "everybody needs to be in bed in five minutes," causing fights over showers, among other things. I swear I remember pigging out with my camp counselors the night before communion and watching the clock to make sure we stopped eating at midnight, and staying up most of the night talking about important teenage things--but maybe I'm imagining this, or maybe arts camp and church camp are nothing alike. Either way...
S did OK, but for the first half of the week, she was obsessed with getting into, and winning, the talent show. When the performers were posted, she had a meltdown, a major one that involved cussing and screaming and crying and wandering around refusing to listen to anyone, and we had to leave camp for the evening. But after a dinner in town and some intense conversations which were the beginning of her realization that she was not going to be a ballet dancer as a career, she was back at it, determined to learn the recital dances and finish off the week.
I did have a realization, though, in the few hours I had free when I had time to pray and read and write. S is not ready to be in 11th grade, and yet holding her back is also not an option. She's not ready, really, to be an adult, is the problem. Of course, I always knew this--knew she'd be living with me way past 18, knew she'd need hands-on parenting for much longer. Still, the talent show incident somehow solidified this for me. Once I got past my own sadness--I haven't been able to teach her the coping skills she needs to be able to handle disappointments like this one, or to recognize her own abilities and potential--I realized it's going to take a lot longer for her to learn these things, and that I have to figure out, in the meantime, how I will continue to raise her when, after high school, I no longer receive adoption support checks.
I also realized in those quiet times away from our home and small town and my job that I can't go on much longer living this life. I am ready to move on. I need to start pursuing the career I know I really want and that these many years have prepared me to take on, and I'm going to need to be brave enough to make the switch. I really want to start the "Healing Ranch" that S and I dreamed about, innocently, when she first came--a safe place people can come to heal. The vision has become sharper and clearer over the last two years, as have some of the steps I would need to take--but the big impetus is going to be actually being brave enough to work toward this, being able to overcome all my doubts and fears.
I had some time to look back over my life, and to think some more about my writing career (or, rather, lack thereof). Even during graduate school, I realized that my career path would not involve the typical "publish or perish" life, and in a way, I've lived exactly that dream--found a way to use what I learned in graduate school to create a career and life for myself that really utilizes many of my gifts. But, at the same time, I've neglected my own work, and I'm beginning to long for it again, for the long hours of writing and rewriting, even for the desire of others reading my work, something I haven't longed for in many years.
I realized, too, that while I really, truly, did not want the tenure track life, I also have, due to fear and avoidance, not sent out my work for a long time. Even if I'm not interested in traditional publishing venues, getting my work out where people can read and be inspired by it is important. And, I owe it to the amazing people I met in 2005 when I took a research trip to Greece for a writing project to finish--well, something. I lost a novel to a computer crash, but that's not really any excuse. I know I can do better than what I had, anyway, and I have a good first draft of a play. I need to finish it, and figure out how to bring it life--I have to stop avoiding this desire and need.
So, strangely, despite the military atmosphere and how difficult life was for S during the week we were at camp, it proved also to be a fruitful week for me, and an important one. Literally two days after returning, we were in the cities for S's birthday, where my aunt who raised me--her grandmother--met us for a few fun-filled days of shopping. OK, I'm not a big shopper, but it was fun to be around them, and it was one of the most enjoyable family visits in quite some time.
And then, just a few days later, S's brothers arrived. Yes, brothers. A, who is 1 1/2 years younger than her, has recently been adopted by a man in another state; she hadn't seen him for two years, and even prior to moving here, she only saw him once a month or so. B, her youngest brother, now 13, just had his adoption disrupted--I can't get a straight story about it, only that the foster mother is now trying to get him back. S had not seen him in more than five years. In a strange turn of events, the social workers and his new foster parents felt B needed this reunion, and suddenly, he appeared in my backyard, waving madly, running into S's arms. Within minutes, they were talking about how they share ESP and other special powers, and then, rather suddenly, about their abuse. B said, "You were such a good sister. You always tried to keep us safe."
"I didn't do enough," S said, tears welling up in her eyes.
"You did the best you could, though," said B, and I don't think she needed to hear any words more than those.
After they talked awhile about their abuse--me interjecting to tell them it was going to be OK, that they were survivors, that telling these stories were part of their healing--and, finally, cutting off the conversation when S said, "I have to stop now, I'm overwhelmed"--they went on to tease each other about crushes and run wildly around the house, chasing the dog.
It was beautiful.
Late at night, A and his father F arrived, and A joined right in, joking around, acting silly. F was exhausted, so we called it a night after an hour or so--but my first impression of him was very good. I realized, with a wave of gratitude unlike any I have ever experienced, that he had been the one who first suggested this amazing trip, and the one who had asked if B could come along. I couldn't stop staring at them--their mannerisms, their positive and negative behaviors, all so similar.
The rest of the week was full of activity--fishing, swimming, shopping, amusement park visiting, and more. We had such an incredible time. A remembers almost nothing from their childhood--I suspect that, now that he heard parts of what happened from his siblings, he will be going through the dark night of the soul that S went through six months ago, hopefully before he turns 18.
B asked me, over and over, if I would adopt him. It was heartbreaking to have to tell him I couldn't. I really bonded with him. He's an incredibly fiesty and oppositional kid, much like S was when she first arrived--but he's also wicked smart, and so sweet when he wants to be. There were a couple very difficult incidents when we had to intervene to keep him or other people safe because he was prone to impulsive and violent behaviors. But, overall, the trip was an incredible success, even though saying goodbye was heartbreaking.
I loved them all, and it was impossible to say goodbye. The last two days since they left, I've been operating in a kind of fog, nervous about how much I still need to do before classes start, sad that the excitement of this crazy month is over, but also grateful to be able to focus on the school year and routines beginning again.
That's summer, in a nutshell! And now that I have adequately (though not very poetically) updated this blog, it's time for bed!
Comments
I'm really glad that the reunion with her brothers went so well. It sounds wonderful.
I'm so