Comfort.

There are some days when I need certain things to help me through. Sometimes it's finding quiet, hearing the laughter of my humans, a long walk with Breck, journaling, crying or baking. Through lots of therapy as well as trial and error, I've learned different ways to comfort my heart. As an outsider though, it's hard to know how and when to comfort people. We are all so different in the way process what is happening in our brains, souls or to our bodies. To make it even more complicated, we don't even process events, the ones that occur over and over, the same way each time either. I can confidently say that when I am in a place where I need comfort, it is almost impossible for anyone to know what to do for me. Often, I don't even know what it is I need and it takes some crawling around in the dark before I feel something I can hang onto for the time being. Often, the smallest actions have the largest impact and we take those impacts with us to the rest of our lives.

For example, my mom did so many things for me when I was little. Without even recognizing it, I use the same pieces of comfort that were given to me, to my foster humans. One thing that I remember vividly is her voice, singing me lullabies, every night. Until I was too big to be on her lap, these songs came to me with her on a rocking chair, my favorite blanket, sucking my thumb and playing with the skin on her elbow. Once I was older, she would sit on the side of my bed, singing and lightly giving me a face rub. I remember these moments very cleary. The touch of her hands, the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin are all engraved in my memory bank.

When my youngest came to me in 2016 she was 8 years old. You can catch up on that day in my post B. It was important for me to instill routines instantly when she arrived. Kids in disarray need to know what they need to do, when and that schedule starts as soon as they enter my home. With B, her bedtime was 7PM every night, even on the weekends. We journaled, bathed, read then I turn down her bed, make sure her fuzzy blanket is face down so it's touching her skin (even in the heat of summer, she never sleeps without that blanket), spray lavender on her pillows and I sing her two songs while she was in bed. Our routine has not varied much over the 3 years she has been with me, her bedtime is later, the songs we sing are shorter and instead of bathes she showers. That is a comfort for her, without even knowing, that I am there most evenings to sing to her, tell her I love her and kiss her good night. A recent part that has been added onto our routine is saying "Love you Forever" at night. This was suggested by her therapist. B is in transition, she is going home in a few weeks for good. Naturally, her little heart is feeling lost. Saying "Love you Forever" gives her the comfort to know that no matter where she is, I will love her, forever.

My middle human came to me never wanting to be touched. The same bedtime routine goes for everyone in the house, even me. Shower, journal, read, lights out. The hard part with my middle human for the first several weeks was that I didn't know how to comfort her because my way of comfort, which largely stems from touch, was not acceptable. The routine was hard for her to get used to and there were a lot of struggles here but I never wavered the routine. I never gave in. We did these things as a family daily and no one got to opt out. Every night, I turned down her bed (which she refused to make in the mornings), sprayed lavender on her pillows, made her herbal sleep tea and gave her melatonin. Every night before she went upstairs (I did not tuck her in), I would ask her if I could hug her, inevitably she would always say no. That was so heart wrenching for me as a parent who connects through hugs, pats on the back and kisses on the cheek or forehead. She was having none of that. After about 2 weeks things became easier for her and she gave into the routine, she started kind of hugging me goodnight and half way making her bed in the mornings.

The reason night time routines are so incredibly important is because these kids are scared of the night. I often hear that they haven't actually slept in weeks and are laying with one eye open all the time. The night is when bad things happen to them or when they witness the worst events in the home. Night time is unsafe, uncontrolled, scary and exhausting. In my house, night time is the same - always. This way, they know, that night after night, nothing bad is going to happen to them. That they can sleep with both eyes closed with comfy pajamas on. I can always tell the first time a child sleeps through the night. In the morning they are a bit confused and lost, wondering where the time had gone. They come down and always ask "What did I miss?" To which I can safely say sleep; you missed the rest of us asleep.

With her comfort of me growing by the day, I was able to intertwine more of myself into her care. For example, I don't know if you know anything about black hair but it’s a lot of work. When it's washed it needs to be combed, dried and braided, it takes a long time. When my middle human first took her hair down, she let me help take the braids out. It took us an hour, together, to remove the braids that took 4 hours to be put in professionally. After they were out we had a hot mess, knots, tangles and the thought of washing her hair was making her very anxious. Memories of my mom washing my hair flooded me and I blurted out "Nothing feels better than when someone washes your hair. May I wash your hair for you in the kitchen sink?" She looked hard at me, wondering if she could be that vulnerable, after all, my hands would fully be on her scalp. I took the time to tell her exactly how it would go, what she would feel, the smell of my products so there would be no surprises. She hesitated but said yes. It seems silly to think that washing a child's hair could be so gratifying but this was progress. This was her way of saying "I'm going to try to trust you." Hair washing is comfort from my past that I could pull from and give to her now.

If you've read my past posts you know my middle human left my house late spring. She came to visit this past weekend for mothers day (heart throbbing). On the second night after my youngest went to bed, she walked into the living room and asked "Will you wash my hair for me? I haven't washed it in a long time." Comfort. This was comfort for her, this was her way of saying she needed some compassion, affection and I always have more than enough of that to go around. She got everything ready in the kitchen, cleaned out the sink, shampoo, conditioner, towel and bent over the white farmhouse sink. I washed her hair, twice, rubbed her scalp and conditioned her hair. When I was done I put a towel over her head, massaged it and she leaned in for a half hug, putting her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and reminder her how dearly I loved her and thanked her for letting me wash her hair.

The first time someone is genuinely trying to comfort you through trauma can be frightening. What if this is just a plan to let my guard down and then you strike? It takes weeks for these kids to let themselves feel comfort; to be able to understand that comfort channels itself as pure love and that nothing feels more comforting than a trusted person, in a safe place with a kind heart to lift our spirits. And, nothing feels better than knowing how to pass that comfort onward to others in our lives. We are the world we were born into. I see it as my responsibility to show genuine compassion to the kids in my home because they deserve to know what it feels like to be taken care of, to be the child, to be comforted with no asks in return. They deserve to let their guard down, to trust and be trusted, to be loved with no regrets.