FAS Teenagers, Adopting Special Needs, and Loving in the Face of Unloveliness

  

To begin this series about parenting, particularly concentrating on the shifts that take place as we grow in grace, I chose to start with Tonia Peckover.  Some of you may know her as “sparrow” from her old blog, Intent, later to become A Study in Brown.  She is a homeschool mother of four and published author (see here to learn more about her wonderful book, written with writing partner Ann Voskamp of Holy Experience).  Enjoy. 

Tonia’s Story:

I sit uncomfortably on the edge of an overstuffed bench right next to the counseling office’s front door.  Across from me a boy in his late teens is stuffing tobacco in the space between his lower lip and gum.  I catch his eye accidentally and maddeningly feel my face grow hot.  He smirks and ducks his head down.  Another door to the left of me opens and two more teenage boys shuffle out.  They seem huge, made fat and puffy by their coats and backpacks, oversized jeans and flopping shoes.  The tallest one sits right next to me, consuming the small space that was left on the bench.  I resist the urge to pull back and try to smile welcomingly.  The two boys begin a loud and strange conversation about snowboarding, music and food.  I turn away just a bit and look back at the thick file in my hands.   

“Birth mother admits only to drinking two beers while pregnant….mother and baby both tested positive for cocaine after delivery…..Fetal Alcohol Effects is highly suspected….Current foster home is willing to adopt….” 

It has been years since I read over this report.  The tears strike my eyes hard and fast.  I swallow and turn my back a little more to the spreading boy beside me.  He is untangling headphone wires and dropping candy wrappers at my feet.  Quietly, I close the file, scanning the remaining contents from memory.  There are reams of paper detailing medical issues, physical therapy appointments, education plans, counseling appointments:  the fluttering trail of a childhood marred by drug and alcohol effects.  

  I’ll add more paper to the file today; paperwork for the next stage in this journey.   FASD teens frequently show destructive and deviant behaviors.  60% of diagnosed victims end up in jail.¹   My thirteen year old son has arrived at this stage as if on cue.  These cluttered, defiant boys that litter the waiting room could be my boy.  And I am one of these parents: the ones who looked harassed and helpless; wearing their impotence with a stunned air.   

Finally, the counselor walks into the waiting room with her benign smile and collects me.  I talk nervously and unnecessarily as we wind through the corridors.  The counselor is calm and cool, entirely in charge, making me feel even more inept.  I try to remember that this is not about me today and swallow some more pride.

 As soon as I sit down in the cramped office I notice the Scripture on her wall and the tears fly at my eyes again.  Thank You, I whisper inside.  I had been nervous about the County Mental Health Department and filled God’s ears with prayers for guidance over the last week.  He is near. 

For an hour we fill out paperwork, trying to get a sense of the issues currently facing us.² 

The counselor begins, “On a scale of 1-5, 1 being ‘never,’ and 5 being ‘always,’ please rate D’s behaviors: 

Aggressive with others?” 

“4” 

“Lies or makes up stories?” 

“5” 

“Has difficulty getting along with peers?” 

“5” 

“Steals?” 

“4” 

“Uses inappropriate or vulgar language?” 

“5” 

“Feels isolated, lonely, misunderstood?” 

“5”

 “Expresses suicidal thoughts?” 

“4” 

And on and on we go.  When we are finished the three page questionnaire is littered with ‘4’s’ and ‘5’s’ and I feel oddly liberated.  The counselor remains impassive, but I search her face for sympathy anyway.  “Do you see what I have to deal with every day?  Do you see?”  I want to shout. But I just sit quietly, still as summer water. 

We make plans for the next steps, and then the counselor puts a calculated yet friendly hand on my back as she ushers me towards the exit. 

 “This is a complicated issue.  There’s probably nothing more frustrating than parenting one of these kids.  They look “normal” and everyone expects them to be “normal,” but they are invisibly handicapped.  It’s very, very hard,” she assures me. 

I nod and speed up, hurrying myself towards the swinging doors.  Suddenly, the hall feels tight and dark.   Everywhere I look are baggy-eyed parents and slumping boys.   I burst out of the counseling office and take a deep breath of the December air.  He is near, I remind myself. 

On the drive home my thoughts turn to a scene from the morning.  My daughter had found the Bible I carried through my teen years, the years when I was “radical for God” and completely “sold out.”  Flipping through its well-used pages I had been surprised to find the Old Testament was lined and highlighted, worn and stained from much reading.  The prophetic books had notes all through the margins:  “Watch out!”  “Don’t be foolish!”  “God is not mocked.”   The New Testament was virtually untouched: except for the passages about who would not be entering the kingdom of heaven. 

Those were the days when I knew how to obey God; when my life stretched out before me like a placid lake, unmarred by imperfection and foolish sin.   I had set that Bible beside my adult Bible, the one I read today, and laughed.  These days I was spending much more time in the New Testament, the land of grace.

 I don’t need to wonder what would have happened to that pious and radical teenager had she been given her heart’s desire of decent and orderly perfection, but I shudder to think of it.  A memory surfaces of my younger Law-abiding self:  I am at a young moms’ Bible Study and my newly adopted son, now a toddler, is screaming his refusal to sit upright in a chair.  The other mothers squirm awkwardly as I methodically give the command to “Sit up!” and then hand out spankings as he repeatedly and unwaveringly refuses.  My jaw is clenched and I am determined not to “lose” to this willful boy.  The battle drags on for far too long.  I straighten my shoulders and try to shake the memory.  

When I arrive home, my youngest boy meets me at the door.   “D was mean while you were gone.  And he said the “F-word.”  His eyes are still wet and red from crying. I kneel down and hug him. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says and sighs heavily, holding open the door for me. 

We go inside and I look on the scene to which I’ve returned.  D is standing on the couch, books are strewn across the floor and there is sharp tension in the air.  D lets out a high pitched scream and jumps down.   My oldest son rolls his eyes and grabs his things to leave the room.  “I’m glad you’re back,” he mutters as he passes me. <br>D is now wrestling with the dogs and yelling, but I have seen him look up at me nervously a couple of times, so I know he is wondering about the appointment.  

When we finally get a moment alone, I wrap him in my arms and whisper, “I love you.”  It is an effort, a gift I give to him.  More importantly it is a gift I give to Him, with deep thanks. Thirteen years of living with this boy has shown me the truth of the Gospel. We are maddeningly persistent sinners, and we are beyond all mortal help.   Yet every day our Father pours out love, gentleness, guidance and undeserved grace.  Tomorrow we will look Him in the eye and disobey.  Tomorrow we will lie and cheat and steal and be cruel and mind-numbingly selfish.  And He knows it.   He will give more grace tomorrow.   

And the tomorrow after that. 

And after that. 

And after that. 

He is near.   

 ¹ http://fascenter.samhsa.gov/documents/WYNK_Criminal_Justice5.pdf ² http://www.fetalalcoholsyndrome.org/Developmental%20Overview.pdf