Summer’s End and Prodigals

 School started this week.

I’m on the fence about it. I need my time to work, and it’s easier without the grands around, but I, also, dread trying to stay on top of all the demands from school. Things were a lot easier when my kids were little. We’re eight years into raising grandchildren, so one would hope I’d be acclimated by now.

In ways, I am. In other ways, I’m not.

Last year. school was a disaster for my grandson. By constantly trying to stay on top of his daily classes, he came out with fantastic grades, but his transition to middle school really hurt. Really. Hurt. I have never been or wanted to be a helicopter parent. Last year, it felt like I had to be.

He and his sister are neurodiverse. That’s a nice way to say we have an alphabet soup of diagnoses that are common in children of addicts.

• Anxiety
• OCD
• ADHD-C
• Autism

My grandson is all of the above. His sister only experiences Anxiety and ADHD-C. Only. LOL. Her ADHD presents differently than his, so she’s found ways to focus. We’re still trying to find that balance with him.

The hard part is waiting to see where my grandson’s needs fall this year. Last year, for the first time in raising all of our children, I found myself at odds with teachers. He’s smart. Super smart, so they weren’t concerned when his grades didn’t reflect what we knew he could do. They didn’t worry about delayed assignments until, of course, they appeared on the gradebook. I have the parent website flagged to alert me to not handed in assignments or grades below a certain level, but, often, the grades didn’t appear until way too late to do anything. The assignments were weeks if not over a month old. Try getting a kid who is already stressed from a day at school to catch up on a boatload of assignments. Oh, and add to the fun that often he didn’t know what the assignment was or didn’t have the proper materials at home to do them.

So, we’re on day three of school. I have laryngitis because of the disaster that was the last few weeks of our summer–no AC for a week meaning allergies took a heavy hit, flat tires, and paint dust from a painter painting our house. In other words, I can’t really talk with his teachers. I did a lot of prep work at the end of last school year with the principal and assistant principal. They listened. We’ll see where it takes us. He appears to have great teachers, so I pray that this year will be less stressful.

On other points, I know I haven’t posted here in a long time. Beyond the struggles with his school last year, there’s been a lot to deal with. We lost my father-in-law over the summer after a long illness. It’s hard to believe he’s gone, and it really hasn’t hit home with me yet.

Then there’s our daughter, the grand’s mom. Between the chaos of the last school year and so many uncertainties about her, I chose not to post updates. There’s a fine line of privacy and confidentiality that I try to navigate each time I do.

I won’t rehash everything, but here’s where things stand.

She’s in jail again. She’s alive. That says a lot.

On December 30, I felt a sudden separation. Parents often have a connection to their children. You don’t notice it until it disappears. When it disappeared that day, I felt a void. A hole.

I struggled with the absence, convinced she had died. We had not heard from our daughter for six months. She’d missed our grandson’s birthday, the start of school, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. It wasn’t like her to miss ALL of these. In the eight years we’ve had the grands, she’s missed contacting us for one or two of these events, but never all of them. Even my granddaughter admitted to me one night that she feared her mother was dead in a ditch somewhere.

Time went on and she missed her daughter’s birthday, too.

Nine months without a word, and then she surfaced. Of course, she was in jail. Since then, she’s gotten out only to get arrested again. She’s begging me to bring the kids to see her, but I don’t want to do it. Heartless? Maybe. But I don’t know if it’s the smart thing to do.

When I thought she was dead, I prayed that if she was alive, God would show me how to help her get straight. I vowed I would do what it takes to help her. Then the reality of her situation came back to the forefront. Before they released her, I encouraged her to do the right thing.

She made promises. Unfortunately, her promises mean nothing to me or her kids. We learned that a long time ago. She didn’t go to the halfway house where she’d have a bed, food, and job. She disappeared. When she resurfaced, she told me a crazy story that didn’t add up. Then she got arrested again.

I can’t help her. She has to try to help herself first.

I’ve come to realize that my daughter is not a prodigal. Prodigals accept, admit, and own their mistakes. They don’t expect grand gestures or money. They’re humble. She is not any of this.

I can’t help her. Only God can.

I’ll end with this one point that I shared with my ladies Bible class a few weeks ago:

Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not mourning, hurting, or worrying about this every day. Life’s too short. I laugh and try to find joy each day. I am overwhelmed at times and need a break, but I don’t need pity.

Image courtesy of freeimages.com by @asifthebest

Children: Gifts not Property

Image courtesy of Nutdanai Apikhomboonwaroot/freedigitalphotos.net

“Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him.” Psalm 127:3

On Wednesday of this week my daughter, the one whose children I’m raising, celebrated her birthday. I did not reach out to her. I wondered if she’d try to contact me. She didn’t, but did message my granddaughter later that night.

The last time I heard from my daughter was Mother’s Day. She hadn’t known it was Mother’s Day until someone mentioned it. She was an hour away and didn’t know when she’d get back that day but wanted to see the kids. I tried to figure out how to work with her, but she got angry when I asked questions about her schedule instead of automatically saying yes.

I tried to reach her a few days before Mother’s Day to arrange something. I messaged the last two phone numbers I’d had for her, but it turns out she no longer has those numbers. That happens a lot with addicts.

Long story short, she got angry because I was trying to figure out when she’d be back in town and actually suggested meeting in a day or two because she couldn’t give me an answer.

When she gets angry, she rants at you. It’s ugly. I tried a few times to talk with her but ended up hanging up on her. It was my Mother’s Day, too, after all.

Her response? She called my granddaughter. I could hear her crying and yelling over the speaker of V’s phone even though she was in her room with the door shut. V gave simple responses, two or three words at most. I wanted to tell her to hang up on her mother, but I didn’t know if I should or not. How was she taking her mother’s attack on me? Did she want to see her mom? Did she agree with her? Would my interference push her in that direction? Luckily, her brother was outside and missed the histrionics.

Turns out V didn’t feel much compassion for her mom. That’s sad. My heart breaks for my grandchildren. I grew up with two loving parents. They were amazing. My grandchildren have us.

Before you comment on how lucky or blessed they are to have us, please don’t. That’s one of my least favorite comments from friends who mean well. They aren’t lucky. They don’t live with their parents. To them, it feels like their mom chose drugs over them. Even during the periods when she’s clean and working (there have been a few), she still doesn’t stick to it long enough to regain custody. Deep inside, they probably wonder if she loves them.

I wonder that, too. I think she’s unable. It’s common for addicts to lose the ability to love or feel empathy or compassion. Drugs change your brain. Everything becomes a means to an end. She claims she loves them, but her actions, when she is around them, come across as territorial. They are hers. Her children. Not mine. She doesn’t understand the blessings and responsibilities that come with parenting. Children aren’t possessions. They are souls we’ve been asked to love and nurture.

My husband and I do what we can. It’s not easy. Children of addicts often have ADHD, and these two are no different. There are other aspects of their neuro wiring that make raising them a challenge.

Although it’s a challenge, I don’t dream of the day my daughter will straighten up and do the right thing. I, actually, worry that she’ll do just enough to convince a judge she’s capable of raising her children. She’s not, and she never will be.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe she’s capable of getting help and straightening up her life if she chooses to do so. I have said many prayers for that, but I don’t try to pray for specifics with her anymore. I don’t reach out to her anymore. I hand her over to God.

Do I miss her? No. Except for days like Wednesday when you can’t help but recall the day your child came into the world.

Recently, a sister from my church said it best: “I don’t suppose you have maternal feelings toward her anymore.”

YES! That’s exactly how I feel.

Many of you are probably struggling with that idea and can’t fathom not having parental feelings toward your children. In fact, another friend overhearing this conversation rejected my response. She insisted I had maternal feelings toward my daughter. She can’t relate and rather than recognize my relief that someone understood, she told me I was wrong. Her path with her children didn’t hit this wall, so she doesn’t know.

As the verse at the beginning of this post says, children are a gift. But children become adults who must make their own decisions. As parents, we raise them to make the right ones, but, and this is the hard part, we have no control over what they choose to do once given their freedom. I would have steered my daughter clear of that wall if I controlled her life. I don’t have that control. Neither does God. We have choice, free will. Not every person chooses the right path.

If you can’t relate to my lack of maternal feelings, be glad, but be aware many parents do know exactly what I mean. It doesn’t hurt, except a little on her birthday. It just is.

Grand-parenting: What Others Don’t Understand

Most grandparents who end up raising their grandchildren don’t know others who are doing the same thing…at first. As time passes, you begin to to discover who else is in this late-in-life adventure with you. I only knew of a few people who were raising grandchildren before Victoria and Amari landed on our doorstep. I didn’t know them well, though.

It took time, but slowly I learned which of their classmates lived with someone other than their mother and father. And then I got to know the people who stepped up to parent them. The majority of us accept the responsibility of raising a family member’s child because their mother and father are absent, on drugs, or in jail. The alternative to taking them in is foster care. I’m not knocking foster care. I know the system has many who truly care for the children in their custody, but the system isn’t perfect. Children in foster care lose family. They lose connection to the only close people they’ve known.

One couple I’ve gotten to know is raising their niece’s child. Due to our shared experiences, we talk often and try to hold each other up. They’re dealing with the courts and the legal system’s steadfast belief that a child belongs with the parents even when overwhelming evidence indicates otherwise. It’s hard. You lose faith in the legal system quickly when you see the steps it takes to reunite a child with their parents despite the mountain of evidence that proves it’s not a good idea.

The struggles they’re facing are the reason I haven’t pursued asking for full custody or adoption. I’m pretty sure the children will live with us the rest of their lives, but if I push for a ruling on this, I’m positive my daughter will fight it with every tool she has available to her. People in the drug culture know the ways to dig at you, to try and make you look bad. For what? To avoid losing, I guess. I’m not really sure. My daughter says she misses and wants her children. I don’t know if I believe her. Her life choices don’t support this assertion. In fact, after months of absence, she resurfaced a few weeks ago…in jail, again.

The story she tells me is heartbreaking, but I’m not sure what or how much to believe. According to her, she couldn’t contact us because the boy (he may be chronologically a man, but I refuse to see him as such) kept her away from us on purpose. Considering the type of people she continually chooses to associate with, I don’t doubt there’s  truth in her statements. But I don’t believe it’s the full truth.

When I spoke to my friend the other day, after empathizing over their recent court experiences, she asked about us. I told her what my daughter claimed. She said, “That’s got to be hard to see your daughter in that situation.”

My response? “No. I’m mad. I can’t believe she keeps going back to the kind of men who will mistreat her.” I raised my children to not let a man abuse them. I taught them to avoid the situation I found myself in early in life…a situation I’ve steered clear of ever since. It makes me angry that she refuses to recognize and avoid the signs I taught her. So, saying it’s hard isn’t true. Saying I don’t feel anything is closer to the truth. It’s hard to put a word to the emotion I feel after all these years.

My friend understood. She’s living it, and seeing her sister deal with crises in her daughter’s life.

Not everyone gets this.

You move past sorrow and concern for your adult child. The scar tissue from their earlier exploits reminds you of the futility of getting caught up in their issues. Yes, you care for them. Yes, you pray for them. But you do stop letting them affect how you feel daily. If someone knocks you down enough, you steer clear of them. You don’t hover nearby waiting for the next punch. This change in attitude happens to most of us in this situation, whether or not we’re raising our loved one’s children or not.  We don’t decide one day to change our attitude toward our loved one. It just happens.

It probably sounds heartless to those of you who can’t imagine feeling nothing or little about your child. I hope and pray you never have a reason to experience it.

For those of you who know this feeling, you are not alone.