I had several different ideas of what I wanted to blog about this morning, but Cindy’s post about her raging son preempted my other ideas. I am in constant awe of the amazing things that are clearly happening at Cindy’s house, but her post today brought back a rush of memories for me.


Cindy has had 3 out of 39 (that number still blows my mind) kids that were too violent to live in a family. I adopted 4 times, disrupted one (because I had no idea what I was up against or what I was doing and couldn’t fight this horribly yuppie community and complete ignorance on the part of the school) and had one so violent he had to leave home. If you don’t count the disruption, I have three that we adopted… And I had one flatliner and one violent one and one who made the decision to trust. So what am I to make of these stats?


When I read of families that hang in through unbelievable stuff, I wonder what was wrong with me. Yet then I remember Tommy going completely psychotic, pushing himself around on my kitchen floor with a blanket over his head, a big knife in his hand, and making really weird noises. I remember the look on the faces of my other children. I remember calling the INSURANCE company (who else do you call first in times like this?) and having the guy, who could hear the threats and crazy noises in the background, ask me if I had called the cops yet? And if not, I should do so immediately.


I remember the trip to the day placement (what a waste of time that was...) at the psych center when Tommy was raging in the back of the van, restrained by my very strong and sizable husband… yet Tommy managed, in his rage, to break lose, grab the ice scraper and catapult himself towards me, the driver. My husband recaptured him before Tommy managed to connect the ice scraper with the back of my head, all the while as we were barreling down the interstate at 70 miles an hour.


When Tommy went to a group home facility for his first 90 day evaluation, they called me midway into his placement and told me he was the most disturbed kid that had walked through their doors. He went on to blow out of that placement (assaulted the 7 year old son of the group home mom) and numerous other placements of all kinds over the next several years.


He arrived in my home at the age of nine, having been abused in every way possible in the orphanage in Ecuador. He used to tell us he didn’t expect to leave the orphanage… he would be dead before he was old enough to leave.


He has told me, in the same sentence, that he loves me and hates me. He is SO afraid of my love and so desperate to have it.


Hats off to you all who are living with this daily.

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