Chapter 5 Tantrums
Walk away was the usual therapy for tantrums. Thinking your child just wants attention, leave him in a safe place, then walk away, teach them to calm themselves alone. I read and realized that my child had been alone most of his life. Ken had not been with me, or a birth-parent so instead of showing him he could "do it all himself", I needed to do the opposite. I would be right there. It would be proof that no matter what, I was right by his side. I began a form of holding him, as you would when a baby cries, and you rock or comfort it. I held him from behind at first, and told him I would not leave him, no matter what he did. When he kicked and struggled, I simply loosely held him, and waited. It was logical to me, that this would help him bond to me, when all other actions would not. Often his tantrums lasted longer than half an hour. At the end I would turn him around, have him look into my eyes, and rock him, waiting for him to look at me and calm himself, then let him go. I felt we were making some progress. Tantrums continued several times a week up to several times a day. This continued for months, then years.
When Ken went to school he was happy and did extremely well. He was outgoing and verbal, and did school work with gusto. Once started he wrote down lengthy stories about heroes and warriors such as he had told. He even wrote in his spare time in notebooks we had at home. I was always more worried about what the family meant to him than what was happening at school.
He wanted to leave home. It started with karate classes. He became obsessed with becoming a ninja. Week after week he insisted he needed to move to Japan, live in a special school for assassins, and learn to kill. I had been continuing with the holding, yet he seemed not at all worried about leaving his home, me, or his brothers. No logic could dissuade him. Several years he dressed as a black ninja for Halloween, and even wore that costume during the day and to bed, so dedicated was he to that goal of becoming an assassin.
To help with attachment we began visits with older brother. I found out where he was placed, and with help of his workers, began visits. The boys all were so close, having lived in the same foster home for three years. It meant a lot to me to see that they kept this attachment. Every broken one might mean they would be less likely to try to attach to some one else.
In fact, visits went so well, it occurred to us, we could foster to adopt Rick. That means, if he works out in our home, and becomes available for adoption, we would be adopting him. Age wise he was a year younger than the youngest of our other adopted children. We decided to consider fostering him, but only after we knew all possibility of his mother regaining custody of him had passed. It was not a situation we even considered that he could return to his birth-mother, while our boys would stand by and watch.
His work at school was excellent. He worked hard, and grades were good. He was polite, helped around the house, took good care of his possessions. He always looked neat and clean, enjoyed sports, and was good at them. He was rough with his brothers, but that was like any big brother, and it seemed good natured and loving. We were cautious but excited to unite this family into ours.
The three boys loved to play basketball together. I wondered how such small boys had gotten so strong, pushing that ball so high to a regular height hoop; it was playing against the big guys. Rick never played down to them, he expected them to play up to his level, and they lost to him, but they were better than most kids their age.
The first problem was on the school bus in September. We were not really prepared, or taking it seriously enough. A little kindergarten girl reported Rick. Doing something in his seat. We did not do enough, did not really listen. Were blind.
We were not vigilant. We went to adoption support group meetings, had friends over, school went on, Ken continued with tantrums, Dale with therapy. Basketball for all the boys. They loved it. I got a phone call. From a friend, in March of the year, 8 months after he moved in, that he had taken a 3 year old girl to the bathroom. It was not something we could ever forget, our child involved with doing something perverse.
We found out the details, and then decided to investigate. We wanted the truth, but did not want to force him to lie. We went to a specialist, and it was there that we found out that this is a behavior that repeats, and must be dealt with professionally. We wanted the best therapy, but found out you have to be accused of a crime before you can have the best therapy available(he was after all a foster child!). I contacted the parent of the child, and asked if she intended to press charges, and she said, no, she would take her to therapy and handle it within the privacy of her own family. The trauma of the confrontation and reciting this to another judge or investigator would not be good for this child, in their eyes. I begged her to reconsider for the sake of another child that might be a future victim, but she was more concerned with her own precious child.
I now had a time bomb on my hands, which I was sending into the world, but not having the means for the proper therapy to teach or change this from happening. I returned to the specialist for help, and his comment was, "What you need to do at this time is to protect your family. Nine out of ten times these young boys start with the younger children in their families."
How to tell the older children what was happening? They had attached to Rick. How to tell the younger ones? It was their brother? Precautions had to be taken immediately. We put an alarm on his door. It was just a warning sound. This was what we need to do to keep all the children safe in our house, because the professionals require this in a house where someone has been accused of hurting a young child. Within the next several months the alarm was disabled or set off during the night. Rick made it difficult for us to keep watch over him. I would find him sitting at another boy's bed acting suspiciously at bedtime, and I would ask him to go to his own bed, and he would refuse. We decided to ask the county to place him into another home, but with this history they could not find another family. We were going on vacation, and took him with us. Another disaster, as we asked him to stay with the adults at all times. A kid that is used to be in sports and running, can run away so quickly that you never can keep up. By the time we caught up he had the police at our cabin, and told them there were several robbers that had thrown things around and beaten him. I spoke with the state police.
"Lady, what's the story here?"
"I'm not so sure about this all."
"His story just sounds wrong, are you his mother?"
"I'm the foster mom."
"First thing wrong, is those wounds, they are the wrong way, he made them himself. He may have thrown those dishes and the cabinet over himself, to make it look like a robbery. "
"It's possible, sir."
"Second thing is, we rarely have burglaries up here in the mountains, as no one has anything to steal! Haven't had one in years."
" He comes from the city and wouldn't know that."
"And he said it was a a couple of black guys. Don't have many of those either."
I apologized. They made their report, warning Rick, that false reports are punished severely, but they would let this one go. Shortly after returning home he was placed in a boys' home where he got the therapy he needed with the nationally known therapist I had contacted originally. My hope was that this is a case in which it worked. What a waste if it did not. I do know that after a few years we no longer visited him at that home, since he ran away at about age 16 to live with his birth-mother.
Another child had left and my older children were mad at me. He was their brother no matter what, and should remain in our home. I made a decision that younger children were at risk and he could no longer stay. More conflict and young Ken continued to see me as the evil witch. Maybe this all had something to do with it? Even at age eleven he was flying into tantrums and running off when angry so that it was hard to keep him safe. I was picking on him, I was always watching him, I was even putting stuff into his food, was he a bit paranoid? I began to think so. I needed outside help, and decided to place him in SouthEastern Boys' School, a boarding school for children. Within a short time our relationship became quite good, he started coming home for visits, and I hoped we would have him come home for good.
Not to be. Almost every visit he was into some major trouble.
He would not comply with polite requests, tantrum, and once threw a tub of margarine in the family room during a tantrum. He tried to steal a laptop computer. He took a pan of gasoline from the lawn mower, set it on fire. There was always something traumatic happening which meant according to their rules, the stay was longer. One time he ran away from their school and broke into a friend's grandfather's house. That came back to haunt us!
At age 16 he was accepted by a fine educational program, and nearly graduated, they checked his records, found a bench warrant for him. They turned him in. I was called to pick him up. It was that old break in that he had never taken care of. Now he had to go to jail and he missed his graduation. I took him home to await trial for something that happened years ago. It was so sad. They had gone to a relative's house to get a beer, and that grandfather was so mad, he pressed charges. During the months we waited for trial, and the months for sentencing, Ken told me his dream of going into the army, now dashed, since he would have a record. When it finally was his day in court, we requested a lawyer, and explained his side to the lawyer. Several school personnel also came to support and testify for him, and his intent to join the army. In this case the best of all situations happened, and the judge agreed that what happened in his years before he was 18 should not be on the record now. They dismissed the charges as long as he enlists. Ken was overjoyed. Within several months he was in the program in the army he wanted and off to boot camp.
Months later he called and invited me to his army graduation. I was honored, I packed the three younger kids into the car, drove all day to Missouri, to see him. Could not recognize him. They kept yelling, "There He IS!" I think all the young men in uniform look alike. I still see a little thin blond boy, I had to hold from behind, until he stopped tantrums, until he calmed. I can't see a tall man in a uniform. They march out, to some other field. We hurry and I get the car, since I cannot walk that far, that fast. We will meet them there. There are hundreds of people, and I send the boys ahead, to tell him to come to us, so we can tell him we want to see him. They look for him, he is with birth-mom. She says, "If he does not come with me, I will leave." He goes with her.
We do not see him. We do not know where he is. We try to contact his Sargent. He cannot help us, since he left the base for the weekend. We cannot see him. We go to our hotel. We have come 800 miles, we do not get to talk to him, visit with him. He is gone.
He has not attached. All that holding, I realize, it made ME attach to him. Three boys and I drive back home 800 miles.
When Ken went to school he was happy and did extremely well. He was outgoing and verbal, and did school work with gusto. Once started he wrote down lengthy stories about heroes and warriors such as he had told. He even wrote in his spare time in notebooks we had at home. I was always more worried about what the family meant to him than what was happening at school.
He wanted to leave home. It started with karate classes. He became obsessed with becoming a ninja. Week after week he insisted he needed to move to Japan, live in a special school for assassins, and learn to kill. I had been continuing with the holding, yet he seemed not at all worried about leaving his home, me, or his brothers. No logic could dissuade him. Several years he dressed as a black ninja for Halloween, and even wore that costume during the day and to bed, so dedicated was he to that goal of becoming an assassin.
To help with attachment we began visits with older brother. I found out where he was placed, and with help of his workers, began visits. The boys all were so close, having lived in the same foster home for three years. It meant a lot to me to see that they kept this attachment. Every broken one might mean they would be less likely to try to attach to some one else.
In fact, visits went so well, it occurred to us, we could foster to adopt Rick. That means, if he works out in our home, and becomes available for adoption, we would be adopting him. Age wise he was a year younger than the youngest of our other adopted children. We decided to consider fostering him, but only after we knew all possibility of his mother regaining custody of him had passed. It was not a situation we even considered that he could return to his birth-mother, while our boys would stand by and watch.
His work at school was excellent. He worked hard, and grades were good. He was polite, helped around the house, took good care of his possessions. He always looked neat and clean, enjoyed sports, and was good at them. He was rough with his brothers, but that was like any big brother, and it seemed good natured and loving. We were cautious but excited to unite this family into ours.
The three boys loved to play basketball together. I wondered how such small boys had gotten so strong, pushing that ball so high to a regular height hoop; it was playing against the big guys. Rick never played down to them, he expected them to play up to his level, and they lost to him, but they were better than most kids their age.
The first problem was on the school bus in September. We were not really prepared, or taking it seriously enough. A little kindergarten girl reported Rick. Doing something in his seat. We did not do enough, did not really listen. Were blind.
We were not vigilant. We went to adoption support group meetings, had friends over, school went on, Ken continued with tantrums, Dale with therapy. Basketball for all the boys. They loved it. I got a phone call. From a friend, in March of the year, 8 months after he moved in, that he had taken a 3 year old girl to the bathroom. It was not something we could ever forget, our child involved with doing something perverse.
We found out the details, and then decided to investigate. We wanted the truth, but did not want to force him to lie. We went to a specialist, and it was there that we found out that this is a behavior that repeats, and must be dealt with professionally. We wanted the best therapy, but found out you have to be accused of a crime before you can have the best therapy available(he was after all a foster child!). I contacted the parent of the child, and asked if she intended to press charges, and she said, no, she would take her to therapy and handle it within the privacy of her own family. The trauma of the confrontation and reciting this to another judge or investigator would not be good for this child, in their eyes. I begged her to reconsider for the sake of another child that might be a future victim, but she was more concerned with her own precious child.
I now had a time bomb on my hands, which I was sending into the world, but not having the means for the proper therapy to teach or change this from happening. I returned to the specialist for help, and his comment was, "What you need to do at this time is to protect your family. Nine out of ten times these young boys start with the younger children in their families."
How to tell the older children what was happening? They had attached to Rick. How to tell the younger ones? It was their brother? Precautions had to be taken immediately. We put an alarm on his door. It was just a warning sound. This was what we need to do to keep all the children safe in our house, because the professionals require this in a house where someone has been accused of hurting a young child. Within the next several months the alarm was disabled or set off during the night. Rick made it difficult for us to keep watch over him. I would find him sitting at another boy's bed acting suspiciously at bedtime, and I would ask him to go to his own bed, and he would refuse. We decided to ask the county to place him into another home, but with this history they could not find another family. We were going on vacation, and took him with us. Another disaster, as we asked him to stay with the adults at all times. A kid that is used to be in sports and running, can run away so quickly that you never can keep up. By the time we caught up he had the police at our cabin, and told them there were several robbers that had thrown things around and beaten him. I spoke with the state police.
"Lady, what's the story here?"
"I'm not so sure about this all."
"His story just sounds wrong, are you his mother?"
"I'm the foster mom."
"First thing wrong, is those wounds, they are the wrong way, he made them himself. He may have thrown those dishes and the cabinet over himself, to make it look like a robbery. "
"It's possible, sir."
"Second thing is, we rarely have burglaries up here in the mountains, as no one has anything to steal! Haven't had one in years."
" He comes from the city and wouldn't know that."
"And he said it was a a couple of black guys. Don't have many of those either."
I apologized. They made their report, warning Rick, that false reports are punished severely, but they would let this one go. Shortly after returning home he was placed in a boys' home where he got the therapy he needed with the nationally known therapist I had contacted originally. My hope was that this is a case in which it worked. What a waste if it did not. I do know that after a few years we no longer visited him at that home, since he ran away at about age 16 to live with his birth-mother.
Another child had left and my older children were mad at me. He was their brother no matter what, and should remain in our home. I made a decision that younger children were at risk and he could no longer stay. More conflict and young Ken continued to see me as the evil witch. Maybe this all had something to do with it? Even at age eleven he was flying into tantrums and running off when angry so that it was hard to keep him safe. I was picking on him, I was always watching him, I was even putting stuff into his food, was he a bit paranoid? I began to think so. I needed outside help, and decided to place him in SouthEastern Boys' School, a boarding school for children. Within a short time our relationship became quite good, he started coming home for visits, and I hoped we would have him come home for good.
Not to be. Almost every visit he was into some major trouble.
He would not comply with polite requests, tantrum, and once threw a tub of margarine in the family room during a tantrum. He tried to steal a laptop computer. He took a pan of gasoline from the lawn mower, set it on fire. There was always something traumatic happening which meant according to their rules, the stay was longer. One time he ran away from their school and broke into a friend's grandfather's house. That came back to haunt us!
At age 16 he was accepted by a fine educational program, and nearly graduated, they checked his records, found a bench warrant for him. They turned him in. I was called to pick him up. It was that old break in that he had never taken care of. Now he had to go to jail and he missed his graduation. I took him home to await trial for something that happened years ago. It was so sad. They had gone to a relative's house to get a beer, and that grandfather was so mad, he pressed charges. During the months we waited for trial, and the months for sentencing, Ken told me his dream of going into the army, now dashed, since he would have a record. When it finally was his day in court, we requested a lawyer, and explained his side to the lawyer. Several school personnel also came to support and testify for him, and his intent to join the army. In this case the best of all situations happened, and the judge agreed that what happened in his years before he was 18 should not be on the record now. They dismissed the charges as long as he enlists. Ken was overjoyed. Within several months he was in the program in the army he wanted and off to boot camp.
Months later he called and invited me to his army graduation. I was honored, I packed the three younger kids into the car, drove all day to Missouri, to see him. Could not recognize him. They kept yelling, "There He IS!" I think all the young men in uniform look alike. I still see a little thin blond boy, I had to hold from behind, until he stopped tantrums, until he calmed. I can't see a tall man in a uniform. They march out, to some other field. We hurry and I get the car, since I cannot walk that far, that fast. We will meet them there. There are hundreds of people, and I send the boys ahead, to tell him to come to us, so we can tell him we want to see him. They look for him, he is with birth-mom. She says, "If he does not come with me, I will leave." He goes with her.
We do not see him. We do not know where he is. We try to contact his Sargent. He cannot help us, since he left the base for the weekend. We cannot see him. We go to our hotel. We have come 800 miles, we do not get to talk to him, visit with him. He is gone.
He has not attached. All that holding, I realize, it made ME attach to him. Three boys and I drive back home 800 miles.
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