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.