I was spilling my thoughts all over one of my friends and she responded, "It's okay, we can just say it sucks." Ugh. And it does sometimes. Dealing with the roller coaster that comes with this path. Saying "hello" and "goodbye" and never knowing what or how long lies in between. No matter where they come from or what they're returning to, sometimes it just...sucks. It's the cruelest of Groundhog Days. I knew before she said it. Something in her face told me. After all, we had been here before. They were going home. I'm not angry or hurt. Mom is doing hard work—she loves them and they love her. It makes me hopeful for their future and hers. We've agreed to be a resource and I want to help them {all} succeed as much as I can. The thing about foster care, is you agree to foster the whole family. You go up and down with them on this journey and support goals. I am thankful for progress. But at the same time, I am frustrated at the lack of time and stability the kids have been given. There seems to be a large slant toward rehabilitating parents and kids are often left behind. The purpose of removing them is to protect them and repair damage that is done. If the only plan that is taken into consideration is the parents, then who is fighting for the children? Big tears splash down my cheeks when I hear the news—she didn't even flinch. When they deliver the news to the kids, she turns to me. I didn't have the answers. Emotion pours out of her like a faucet. Her little body folds and she doesn't know what to do. She's torn—I can read it on her face. Of course she wants to see her mom, but she wants to be here, too. She wants to bound down the stairs in the morning, and make pancakes, and tell me all about her day at summer camp. She wants to hook up Christmas lights and host dance parties in the back yard. She wants to read books at night and cuddle in the chair. She just wants both. I get it. He doesn't even respond. The weight of reality hasn't registered. We're given a week. One week to break down the family we've built. Time is simultaneously breathtakingly fast and unmercifully slow. She cries nearly every day and even though I've been told to hide it, I cry with her. I want her to know we care, that we love her—but that we are also happy that her family is working really hard to be together. He's confused. He is convinced he'll be back...that this is just a visit. He nibbles on a cookie in William's office and tells "dad" that he'll miss him. How do you explain to a 4-year-old who has seen three different homes over the course of four months what any of this means? Then, seemingly without warning, here we are. There are only hours left now. And the epitome of foster care is at the bottom of my stairs—lives reduced to a pile of boxes and backpacks. Belongings carted with them from place to place. "I want my monster truck blanket." It's packed bud, I promise. We'll forget something—we always forget something. A ball is left behind a couch, a school project left on a table... Once the car pulls away, I'll change the sheets. I'll clean out the snack box, put books back on the shelves, throw out half-eaten mac n' cheese, and tuck away notes left on the fridge.
With foster care, you never know how long or short the time will be. Everything seems compressed and invisible pressure makes you feel as though you have to do as much as you can as quickly as possible because the tell-tale heart beats loudly in your ears the moment they enter your home. We know we are here for a reason and only for a season—we just have no clue what those reasons are or how long the season will last. Before she leaves, the caseworker asks, "Will you be taking a new placement or are you taking a break? There are so many kids." I don't know is my honest reply. And while we all know we'll love the next one just as hard, none of us are quite ready to let go of these hearts yet.
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AuthorWriting is really my outlet, so you'll mostly see my prose on here. But William might occasionally make a guest appearance. Archives
May 2021
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