Puppy Love

Oh how I love him. But as much as I love him, I think he loves me more. Wherever I am, he wants to be. He is my friend and companion and protector. He’s my boy.

Think I’m talking about my husband?

Nope.

I am talking about the 7.5 pounds of pure fury we recently added to our lives.

About a month ago, I made my occasional visit to petfinder.com. I expected to do what I always do – see a bunch of cute pups, feel my heart breaking for all the animals in need in the world, talk myself into getting a dog, talk myself out of getting a dog, lather, rinse, repeat in a few months.

Except this time was different.

I found my dog.

I filled out the adoption application and waited. The only communication I got in return was a standard “Thanks for your application. We’ll be in touch soon.”

That was a Monday. By Friday I was scouring their FB page and website for any kind of info on him. He was listed as being one of the dogs that would be at their adopt-a-thon the next day at a pet store an hour from our home. We arrived as they were unloading their SUV’s. One of the workers had The Squirrel (our nickname for him) in her arms as we drove past. "There he is!!!”

I made O go check on him. Was he was still available? Had they reviewed and rejected our application and that’s why we hadn’t heard anything?

I just couldn’t bear to see him up close and then find out he wouldn’t be ours.

No more loss.

A few minutes later, O came walking up with The Squirrel in his arms. I looked at him like he was crazy. "What are you doing?"

“He’s ours if we want him.”

I sat there for probably fifteen seconds processing what he said.

It was too easy. Where was the struggle? The pain? The uncertainty?

(Is this what our attempts at family building have done to me?)

I took him in my arms and that was it. He was mine. Ahem - OURS, I mean.

The lady that I filled out the paperwork with said she’d spoken with my husband and immediately liked him and wanted The Squirrel to come home with us in the first 30 seconds. My dear sweet genuinely nice husband saves the day again.

The Squirrel is a yorkie-miniature pinscher (or possible Chihuahua) mix. He has the craziest gray hair that sticks up on the top of his head. He looks a little like Don King. Or Alf. We are also told quite often that he resembles the “mean Gremlin” from the 1980’s movie.

I have a serious, serious case of the puppy love. Wouldn't you?

Touchstone

“I’m so happy.”

I’ve said this to O often the past few weeks. I suspect that it comes out in a somewhat surprised, wondering way - as if I can hardly believe it. Our peaceful little life has returned. There is no more threat of violence. No more wondering what in the world we are going to do. There were times during the long, hateful summer that I wondered if we would ever be happy again. And we are. I am. And I am so grateful for it.

This is my favorite time of year. Leaves and mums and pumpkins. Cider and sweaters and the first chill in the air. Football and family birthdays and our annual fall trip. It’s my time to snuggle in.

When we were in the worst of our days with the kids and all we wanted was peace – in our home and in our heads – O and I would talk about a trip to Gettysburg. It would be cool, at the end of fall, with the leaves swirling through the streets and winter about to set in. He would spend the day on the battlefield. I would wander my very favorite antiques places for hours. We would meet for dinner at a wonderful little restaurant and then head back to our hotel and crawl into bed where it was warm and cozy and sleep in each others’ arms. That little dream was our touchstone – the place we’d go to in our minds to get us through the ugliness of our reality. There was absolutely no way to make it happen at that point, but it didn’t stop us from thinking about it. It got us through, somehow.

Very soon that dream will become a reality, as today I start to gather books and battlefield maps and throw things into suitcases. And I’m pretty sure that when we get there and are walking through the streets of Gettysburg holding hands, bundled up to ward off the chill in the air, I will look around and not quite believe that we are there. That we actually made it.

But we did. We made it, in more ways than one.

I am so grateful.

Waver

Do I miss them? No, I don't think I do.

And trust me, that answer doesn’t shock you any more than it has shocked me.

I pray for them. I hope that they are well-loved in their new home, and that they will stay with this family for always. I hope that issues are addressed and that much-needed help is finally provided. I hope that they live wonderfully happy lives. I even hope that we will always know how they are.

But do I miss them? Wish they were still living here? Wish things could have turned out differently?

No.

Even more shockingly, I don't know if I want to be a parent. I didn't really like it that much - being a mom. Even before all the bad. *

Perhaps it’s as some closest to us have said – that the kids simply weren’t a match for us; that I would feel differently about a child that I “clicked with”.

I do still miss and think of a little 3-year-old that was going to be placed with us a couple of years back. I miss her a lot. But I was never her day-to-day “mama”.

There have been so damned many uncertainties in our journey but the one constant has been my deep, unwavering desire for a child. And now even that is wavering.

And that, my friends, is a very unbelievable place to be.

*And as a clarification, the kids were not sent to another foster home because I didn't like being a mom. I am way too stubborn - way too "make it work" for that. I would have stuck it out and, I'm sure, come to love my role as their parent. But whether I did or not, I would have given them everything I had for the rest of my life because I'd committed to be their mom.

**ring**ring**ring**

It was one of those numbers on the caller ID that wasn't quite right. I figured it was the telemarketers from Wells Far*go calling to irritate me yet again. Three or four calls per week in the early afternoon for almost a month.

(I guess "DO NOT CALL US UNLESS THERE IS A PROBLEM WITH OUR MORTGAGE PAYMENT WHICH THERE HAS NEVER BEEN!" is more difficult to understand than I'd originally thought.)

Anyway, I hit the "talk" button poised for battle and an automated voice says:

"Your child, Monkey Boy, was absent from morning roll call and will require a written excuse to return to school."

Ugh.

This child is no longer even in school in our county. How is it that the new school even HAS our number?

Just another little reminder. They are fewer and farther between but they come at the darndest moments. A matchbox car sucked up by the vacuum from under the bed. A Christmas list stuffed in the very back of a drawer I'm cleaning out. A leotard that's somehow ended up in the drawer with my pajamas. A Nat. Geo. Kids magazine arriving in the mail. An automated call from a school.

Ugh.

Just ugh.

Confirmation X 2

It was early June and school had been out for a couple of weeks. There on the calendar was the date we'd been waiting for - counting the days until.

The psychiatrist appointment.

We'd been on the "emergency waiting list" for three months. To be called if there was any kind of opening.

The phone never rang once.

Of course.

We were so anxious to meet with the psychiatrist. We needed HELP. We were frustrated and scared and feeling alone. We knew the situation was headed in a bad direction and were frantic to take even the smallest steps to have things start to turn around.

In retrospect I can see how silly it was to pin all those hopes on a 45-minute-get-to-know-you kind of appointment.

But at least things were under way.

As we were getting ready to leave, she said she wanted to see The Monkey on her next available appointment.

Ahhhh - relief.

Her next available appointment?

THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

Yes, that's right. This psychiatrist's next available appointment was the day before Thanksgiving.

5 1/2 months away.

We took it. And could not have felt worse if the nice woman who handed us the appointment card had stood and punched us in the stomaches for good measure.

But we could do it. We could hang on until November. We had to.

We'd asked the case*workers if we could take The Monkey somewhere else. To another psychiatrist. To someone who could HELP him. And us. Now.

We were willing to drive to Big City 1 1/2 hours away or Bigger City 2 hours away. Every week. Twice a week.

To get The Monkey some help.

We were told no. That the local mental health facility didn't like for its' patients to do that.

I understood continuity of care but Jesus! The child needed help now. Not just in time for the holidays.

So back to waiting we went.

We were also waiting for an appointment at the huge children's mental health screening facility. Best in the state. You go in there and, by God, you come out with a diagnosis.

"It can take up to six months for an appointment" we were told in mid-June.

"Or longer."

That was fine. "Set it up. Please. Immediately."

What choice did we have?

Five weeks later, the worker came to our home to *BEGIN* the paperwork.

Five weeks.

We thought we were five weeks closer to an appointment. Hanging on as best we could.

And she was only just starting the paperwork.

We could have laid our heads on the table and cried.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

September came. The kids had been gone for a few weeks.

New foster mom called and asked who was supposed to have been setting up the screening at the BIG KIDS' CLINIC.

I told her.

And she told me that she'd called BIG KIDS' CLINIC and they had never heard of The Monkey.

Bastards.

My heart fell. Three months after the appointment should have been set up and nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

Worker swears she sent the paperwork. Ummm hmmmm.

She sent it again a couple of weeks ago.

Supposedly.

And the clock winds again.

And a child suffers just a little bit longer because someone didn't do their job.

Again.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The next week we got a letter. From local Mental Health Center.

The day-before-Thanksgiving appointment? That was set up in early June? And was the first available?

Cancelled.

The doctor is going to be out of the office that day.

But we are "welcomed to call and reschedule".

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

If the kids were still with us, we were experiencing what we'd been experiencing - just trying to hang on until we could get help . . .

and BOTH of those pieces of help fell through

I don't know that I would have been able to take it. Truly.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Usually when I get confirmation that I made the right choice about something, I feel empowered or, at the very least, even more certain or peaceful.

These two things - though clearly confirmation of what we'd feared all along (that weeks and months would pass without The Monkey getting any sort of meaningful help, no matter what we did) just left me feeling sick and defeated and deflated.

And angry at a system that is so unbelievably screwed up that I'm not quite certain how it even continues to function.

I Never Cried

I never cried.

Not one time in the weeks and months that the placement was falling apart did I shed even one tear.

I did what I DO. I tried to fix it. (Well, I ate a lot of pizza AND I tried to fix it.)

I educated myself. I read articles and books and blogs and studies.

I asked for help from the case*worker.

I talked to other foster moms who'd experienced similar and worse, not about the particulars of our situation, but about what THEY went through. How THEY made it better. (Usually they didn't.)

I drove to psychiatrist appointments. And play therapy appointments. And eight weeks of behavorial camps. And adoption counseling for me and O. And regular old counseling for myself, which I'd never done before.

I sought help. For the child. For us as a family.

"I don't see any big red flags. I think (the child) will ultimately be fine."

Until when we played a tape for the expert and her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"I've never quite heard anything like that."

Yeah, no shit.

99% of the time this child was so loving, gentle, kind. You had to brace yourself walking through the house because they were liable to come racing from any room to throw their arms around you and hug you for all you're worth.

They would want to walk ahead of you across the yard so they could kill any snakes that might try to hurt you.

When they were gone, I cannot even begin to describe the surety I felt. We absolutely did the right thing. For them. For us. I knew it as certainly as I know my own name. I still do.

I spent the first three weeks putting together life*books for them. Reconstructing the first years of their lives with the few photos and stories I had. Combining them with the hundreds and hundreds of photos I'd taken and memories we'd shared.

Even during long hours working with all of these images, I never shed a tear.

But about a month after they were gone, the phone rang. It was new foster mom's number. I wasn't surprised. She wasn't getting straight answers from the case*worker about so many things. She'd been turning to me for answers. Timelines. Information.

Except that it wasn't foster mom. It was one of The Monkeys. My heart was in my throat. We talked and talked. They told me about trampoline tricks and dead snakes they'd found and "maybe (they) could take a picture of it to send to (me)!"

I must have heard "And guess what?!?!" fifty times in ten minutes.

I took the phone out to O who was sitting on the porch, and sat down beside him to listen. Questions. Answers. Laughter.

As O talked, I pictured the child running after pop flys in the front yard I was looking out on. (They would always, always miss them because they closed their eyes when the ball came close.)

Blowing bubbles and watching them float high in they sky.

Giggling as they got sprayed by the garden hose on a warm May afternoon.

Running up the front stairs with a bluebird they'd saved from one of the cats.

And when O got off the phone, I cried. Big heaving wracking sobs that came straight from my soul.

For the first time, I missed this child - this magical wonderful loving damaged little creature. I missed them big. I missed them completely. I was afraid they were lonely. And that they were missing us.

Towards the end it was so very easy to focus on the bad. On the fear. On the craziness. It was easy to forget all that was good.

Once my tears had stopped, O asked me if I felt regret. If I wished we'd made a different choice.

"No baby. We did the right thing. But gosh I miss them."

And we held hands and rocked and enjoyed the peace and quiet. And, I'm sure, we both spent a some time picturing two little monkeys catching lightning bugs on the lawn as they'd done so many evenings before.

And we smiled.