It’s been a while.
I’ve missed writing here but “going dark” seemed like the best plan for a while
My feelings were too raw.
My anger at D*C*F*S, both for the things we were not told before we agreed to move the kids in, and for the help we (and especially the children) did not receive, was too close to the surface. There was a distinct possibility that I might have over-shared or said something that I would have regretted. And yes, the possibility of both of those things still exists, but it’s not as likely as it once was.
I think.
I’ve remained surprisingly plugged in to the kids’ situation in their new foster home these past months. I’d expected communication with the new foster family to fade away pretty quickly once the kids moved. However, they’ve found themselves in the same situation we were in – advocating for the kids to get the services they’ve so desperately needed and having it all fall on seemingly deaf ears. They couldn’t even seem to get the services they were promised.
They were also unable to get answers to a lot of their questions. While the kids were in our home, I’d made it my business to gather and retain as much information on them as I could in an effort to figure out what was going on behaviorally. So I’ve been able to answer foster mom’s questions on many occasions which I am more than happy to do for several reasons.
First and foremost, the more that people who treat the kids know about them and their backgrounds, the more effective they will be.
Secondly, I really want this placement to “stick”. There is no better place for these kids to be than with their current foster parents. They are wonderful and will do everything within their power to give the kids their best opportunity for happy, healthy lives. If it works out for them to stay.
Finally, I am the only person who can truly understand what foster mom is going through, both with the kids and with D*C*F*S. I hope that I have been an “ear” when she’s needed it, because as foster parents, there aren’t a lot of places to turn for support because there is so much you can’t share.
And as we were laughing about the other day, even if you DID tell “civilians” exactly what was going on, they’d never believe in a million years that the agency whose mission it is to protect children is so thoroughly and completely broken. Not in one million years.
I haven’t spoken with the kids themselves for a long time. Contact with anyone from their past is no longer allowed. I understand and even agree that it is for the best, but there’s something about it that still bugs me a little bit. Perhaps it’s just that that decision goes against everything I ever read about kids adopted from foster care. My understanding was that it was important for kids to understand that while relationships may change, not everyone in your life will eventually walk away from you forever.
There are still occasional reminders of the kids that sneak up on me every now and them.
a teeny tiny Lego piece that one of the cats found somewhere last week
a drawing of our home done by one of the kids that I’d tucked in a book I’d been reading last year and found a couple of nights ago
that darned “National Geographic for Kids” subscription that never seems to run out
I’ve taken their photos down from the fridge. All that remains is one of them sitting in a field of buttercups, framed and hanging in the hallway with our family pictures.
Even as I communicate with the new foster mom, I close her emails or hang up the phone and am transported back to the abject misery of last summer. My God I don’t think I have even been so very unhappy.
Or felt more alone.
Make no mistake, O and I were a solid team; closer than we had ever been, I think. But we were in WAY over our heads with no meaningful support to be found. And by support, I don’t mean that we were looking for someone to coddle us and hold our hands and help US. We were looking for help for the KIDS, - crazy things like wanting a DIAGNOSIS and a getting a TREATMENT plan in place.
Funny how it didn’t really seem to be a priority until the morning we called to disrupt.
Suddenly services I didn’t even know existed were being thrown our way.
Where were they when we were being hit and kicked?
When we begged to be allowed to find a psychiatrist who had appointments available more than once every six months? Even if we had to drive two hours each way several times a week. We were willing to do it.
But by that point, I simply didn’t trust that any of the amazing things that were being offered would actually be provided.
(OH HOW RIGHT I WAS.)
So as I hear about what continues to go on for new foster family, I feel empathy and sympathy and always say a prayer for healing and stability for the kids.
And then I am inevitably left with one simple thought.
Thank God that it’s not us.
Thank God.
