Category Archives: child advocacy

Prayers for my reactive attachment disorder children

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I face this story every day, every moment of every day:

Once upon a time there were two teens. They both came from stories of neglect and abuse. Someone had hurt them by not giving them safety. Others by transgressing the most basic law of love–don’t hurt a child.

They hooked up. Had kids. Wandered into ways to dull the pain and longing in their hearts.

The children were so young but they still remember hunger, watching their parents leave them locked alone with a single cupcake to share among them all.

Longing. We all long for something–love, truth, justice. But what if that longing is never heard? A child cries but no one holds him? A little girl lives with a gnawing ache for food.

What happens when the search for love and safety comes up empty before they are one or two or three?

I watch her face in each picture. She never smiles. I want to say to her mother–pick her up, snuggle with her, talk baby talk to her and feed her. That is why you get wic, so she can be full.

Break the cycle, girl, for God’s sake, break the cycle.

What is it like to be raised by wolves?

Better than this. Wolves are social animals, willing to hunt for their young.

I search for answers, but there are few that satisfy. I cringe at memory–my own exasperation, impatience, and exhaustion. So many things I would do better.

I say that ruefully knowing that the maxim I had at 27 was true and mattered–regardless of the raggedy look of things. You must hold on. They need years of you just being there.

I am here. I won’t ever leave you.

He asks if we can meet. I say yes, but only me. The others are not ready.

Ready is a placeholder for heartbroken. Reactive attachment disorder can seep into the lives of everything it meets. It takes no prisoners.

I pray. I pray all the time. I pray they do not hurt or kill or disfigure. I pray for safety. I cast about for anyone or anything I could enlist to save them…from themselves. The longing for mother’s love turns to drugs, alcohol and reckless touch. Wires in a machine all shorted or circuited wrong.

Nothing will work but love, and by love I mean compassion. And by compassion I mean Jesus. I do the only thing that makes sense when the disease at the heart of your child is terminal–I cling to the feet of God and say, Save these babies, resurrecting God.

Welcome to the Post Christian Era

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I once lived in a country without religion.

Yes. There were churches. With cameras and careful supervision.

They knew who came and who went, they controlled each dry scrap of bread.

But were these churches christian? Was this Christianity?

Bells can ring and bells can toll.
We should recognize the difference–a matter of life or death…

The New Yorker Toys With Childhood Icons

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It is utterly irresponsible for The New Yorker to co-opt children’s role models and icons for a cover piece about the expanding definition of marriage especially when they like everyone else in media punted over the Kevin Clash scandal.

Who am I kidding? There was no scandal because they did not examine what it means for a touted figure in children’s television to be trolling for teenage sexual partners.

I think they owe my kids an apology. Not because we can’t all deal with what it means for muppets to be hiding a sexual relationship for years (?!?)…No. Because in this case it was not their place to bring a politically motivated sexual dialogue into a place where children play.

A place where we still have not had the courage to speak of what Kevin Clash did to Elmo.

SCOTUS decides on child pornography

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This decision is infinitely more important than the DOMA suit.

Let’s see how much press it gets, who weighs in on the issue, and what Justice Kennedy has to say about the honor and dignity of children. Now that he has shown this is an important issue for him: the rights and legal protection of children.

Time to pony up, Your Honor.

Pony up.

Still haven’t heard from the senator from Ft. Worth…

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Dear Senator Davis,

I still have not heard from you (which is strange). You said that you wanted to hear stories about abortion provisions in Texas. You said…and correct me if the national media got this part wrong…

That you were standing for women’s rights in Texas? I am waiting for my right to be heard.

Please let me know where I can send these small pink sneakers. Your office address is fine, I just want to know that you will receive them.

See, that is the difficult part for me–you have said you are listening and standing and representing, but are you listening to women like me? Are you standing for all of us?

The abused? The abandoned? The unwanted?

It’s just a tiny, adorable pair of baby shoes, right?

The feet they are missing. They are so small.

Sincerely,

Elea Lee

Cocktails and BOGO with the esteemed Dr. Gosnell

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Wait a second, we all remember what we are talking about, right?!

I mean so close on the heels of Kermit Gosnell’s house of horrors…we are all clear, right? We are advocating for or against a process wherein a living baby is forced out of her mother’s uterus in cut up pieces to be reassembled like a bloody puzzle…

I mean, with all the well-heeled ladies thumping their augmented chests over women’s rights and all…

It started to sound like y’all have forgotten that half of the human beings who go into abortion mills come out in bloodied pieces.

Little Pink Sneakers

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Let me say this straight off–I am a disenfranchised Texan. This happened several years ago at the end of a long and fruitless battle to keep children safe from identified sex offenders.

But last night helped.

I applaud every elected official who stood up for children’s rights in Texas last night.

Funny how the national press has focused on Senator Davis’ shoes. I focus on Ernest Hemingway’s. I have always loved the story of the six-word short story, not so much because it had to be Papa who told it, but because my heart has been broken more than once by the shoes never worn by babies–babies I lost to miscarriages or adoptions. I miss the children who should have worn the shoes.

Over 84 thousand babies lost their lives last year in Texas. Too many empty pink sneakers.

If you think that is a tragedy there is something you can do–

Trace the outline of a pair of baby shoes on a piece of paper and send it to Ms. Davis.

A six-word story is amazing. A picture is worth a thousand words. But the world entire is in the eyes of a child.

Speak for those who have been silenced.

All Those Tiny Pink Sneakers

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Scattered in the chaos of my house there are pictures of my children–very small, grainy images of each of them when they were smaller than a dollar bill.

Small, but priceless.

So why would requiring a woman to see pictures of her baby be such a big deal?. Because unlike me, some women don’t treasure these reminders of their tiny children.

The truth is that in many countries including the United States sonogram is already a part of the abortion decision. Women wait until the gender of their developing child is evident in the picture and then they terminate the little girl.

Thank you, Ms. Davis, for the graphic reminder of all we are losing.

And the eroding rights of women–especially the really small ones. Here in Texas and all over.

No Justice for Jada

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Another story you don’t want to read–an innocent child abused to death by drug addicts but the court vacates a legitimate sentence of murder because they do not see sufficient intentionality?

Are they crazy?

Nope.

In fact, they are being highly pragmatic. They are reflecting the value of a single child’s life in our culture. How much is Jada’s suffering and death and the lies told to cover her murder worth to you?

Make some noise. Justice for Jada.