Worth More Than Time

The kitchen alarm loudly beeped at 6:45 am , which was the same time coffee automatically started letting me know the morning was off to its normal rip roaring start. Stuck behind an football fridge magnet was our monthly master schedule. Color coded and laminated it was one of two hard calendars we kept plus our digital cozi calendar but in truth it was optimistic monument to organization that rarely survived the reality of four schedules in a two parent working home that was also filled with therapy schedules , extracurricular activities, and case worker visits that were mandatory as therapeutic foster parents when we had kids in our home. What made these different, is our boys were foster to adopt but we still followed all the rules with the added pressure of attending adoption check ins at their home judicial court which was several hours away. The mornings were left to me because my husband had to leave for work by 7 am which left me the heavy lifting in the am. Our two boys had elementary schedules that were very stringent and a bus driver that was always there in the five minute window. This led to a morning that typically was full of chaos, of wrangling kids that were full of energy that could not be contained. Across the kitchen island, backpacks were half open, permission slips were on the dining table and half eaten breakfast was on the table. Darice couldn't find his other sock and was insisting the laundry hamper had somehow inexplicably eaten his sock. Mornings never went quite like they were supposed to . There was never enough time and my reserve of patience was limited today between checking the book bags to make sure nothing was missing like homework, packing lunches and making sure there were snacks for after school practices. I was surviving off of caffeine and Mom grit. The morning schedule showed no mercy and every minute counted.

Then Antony , the baby of the house at only eight years old materialized in the bathroom doorway fully equipped in his superhero pj’s, cape included.He was clutching his orange bath towel to his chest like a shield. “Mrs. Anna” he whispered, his voice small enough to slip through the cracks of the floorboards.

The boys had been in our home for six months now . For Darice we were house number nine, a devastating tally for a child whose nervous system had learned that love was painful and connected it to past trauma. He was diagnosed with Reactive Attachment Disorder and was a textbook example, though with the vehemence of a ten year old who had seen too much denied there was anything wrong with him. He wore his trauma like body armor. His brain had been programmed to connect warmth and safety as abnormal and painful. Which would lead to him lashing out verbally and physically testing our breaking point, wanting to abandon us before we had a chance to abandon him. A permanent mental stain wrapped in the many trash bags he carried all he owned previously into foster homes and initially our home. One of the first things we bought for him was a duffel bag so he would start knowing his own value.Progress with Darice was an agonizing tango one delicate step forward  and three aggressive steps back.

 One of my favorite memories that my mind would drift back to, was the first time we took them to Embassy Suites overlooking the Ohio River. Neither boy had ever stayed in a hotel. They were in awe. The things that we took for granted were special luxuries to them like the glass elevator, the fresh made omelets in the morning breakfast and the two rooms where they had their own space to watch tv even with a fridge.

Darice had never had his birthday celebrated with a cake and though it was just a grocery store cake with candles and his name, the look of wonder and joy in his eyes put warmth in my chest. We could see some of the guarded walls behind his eyes crumble, replaced with pure happiness. It had made the hard days bearable, even though I knew in my heart this reprieve of behavior was just temporary. 

Antony though was a complex puzzle. We were only his third house, but he internalized his trauma. Where his brother reacted and pushed, Antony was always on stage.He tried so hard to be perfect, cleaning his room without being told, making sure his homework was done, swallowing his tears when the pain in his heart was sometimes unbearable, all out of a bone deep terror that if he wasn’t perfect he wouldn't be wanted and he would experience another displacement. It kept the scared little boy locked closely in his heart.

Still beneath that fear was an awkward eight year old that was wonderfully strange. He was the exact brand of weird I was at his age, in love with 80’s rock, believing superheroes were real and he had his own personal fashion that included capes over his pj’s and Hawaiian shirts in his school attire. It gave us a special connection that we could reach when the house became too chaotic.

“Mrs Anna” he repeated, eyes cast down expecting a no, his fingers playing with the edge of his shirt, “ Can you wash my hair for me? Please?”.

My eyes instantly looked for a clock to verify the time. It was 6:48 am. The sock monster had eaten well and Darice’s sock was still missing. Lunches still needed to be packed and I could feel a cold lump of anxiety growing in my throat. “ Antony” I sighed as I leaned down to touch his face and look in his eyes, logic begging me to say no, “ We don’t have time for this.”

The words barely choked out before I saw the damage they would do. His eyes were beginning to shutter. The fragile spark of trust allowing him to speak of what he really wanted was beginning to fall behind the good kid mask. His shoulders rounded in as if trying to protect his chest and his fingers gripped the towel until the color in his knuckles was starting to fade. He had taken a risk and I had confirmed his worst fear that he was in the way and not wanted.I realized then he wasn't asking for clean hair, it was about security, trust and touch. It was ten minutes where he was the center of attention, where my hands gently massaged his scalp and told him without words that he was loved, he was safe and he was worth taking up space and time.

I looked at the counter and calculated mentally if I could get everything done. Then I decided I would work our schedule this morning. It wouldn't work us. I stood up, grabbed a chair , dragged it to the sink and turned on the water. Antony’s eyes widened as he realized what I was doing. He climbed onto the chair, and leaned forward as I placed a hand towel in his hands to cover his nose and eyes while I washed his hair,while placing orange towel over his cape to dry his hair after the wash.

I poured a dollop of Watermelon scented kids shampoo into my hand and worked the lather into his thick curly hair. I felt Antony relax and let out a sigh as if he had been holding his breath for months. My hands and fingers moved in deliberate circles trying to workout the stress and detangle his hair at the same time. I knew that they might miss the bus and I would have to drive them to school, but with every gentle stroke across his scalp. I gently and lovingly smoothed away the fear of abandonment, anchoring him to our hearts, to our home, and to a family that wasn’t letting go.