Hope is a B*tch

We went weeks without hearing anything about the two babies. I will never get used to the "hurry up and wait" aspects of this process.

In the meantime, I decided to call a pediatrician friend of mind and she echoed my concerns about bringing a little one with severe asthma into a home (albeit a very clean home) with pets. It would have been a "let's just see what happens" situation. No thank you. Asthma is nothing to be messed around with and babies are not guinea pigs. I told CW to please withdraw us from consideration. She agreed that that was probably best. I didn't get the feeling that anything was happening with the case anyway.

But my oh my, have we had a heartbreak this week.

Two very medical fragile babies. Beyond gorgeous.

D*C*F*S ideally wanted them placed in a home together, of course, but their care was so intensive that they were strongly considering separate homes until surgeries could resolve some of the medical issues.

We knew that we didn't have the support system in place to care for two babies who would need eyes on them 24/7 (and when I say 24/7, it is no exaggeration), but after much conversation we agreed to take one with the offer to adopt both after their surgeries, provided we could get a few basic questions answered first.

Our CW said she was almost sure they'd have to separate them - that their care would be too much for one foster home.

Our hopes went up.

Soared . . . to the point that I was figuring out how to arrange our bedroom for the baby to sleep with us each night so we could care for it.

We visited them in the hospital. We held and comforted them. We learned a little bit about their daily care. We dared to dream that they might be our babies, until I got an email from our worker yesterday morning.

They found the babies a home together.

Best for them, but heartbreaking for us.

Even O was shaken by the news.

He too had dared to hope.

Hope - - - she is such a b*tch.

When will I ever learn?

And Still We Wait

We've been approached about two siblings, both very little ones.

There is one stumbling block. (It wouldn't be us if there wasn't a stumbling block.)

One of the kids has what sounds like pretty serious asthma. Knowing what I do about allergies and asthma, I requested that someone speak with the child's physician to confirm that it would be okay for them to be placed in a home with pets.

As it is, our home is pretty asthma-friendly. We have no carpet (only hardwoods) and no curtains, and I keep things pretty well dusted and vacuumed because of my own allergies. But we do still have two part-time indoor kitties and two full-time indoor small dogs and they do have some dander. I won't do anything to put a child's health at risk, no matter how much I'd love to be their parent.

So our caseworker will be checking on that and getting back to us before we'll agree to proceed with anything.

We've also sent a list of questions to the caseworker based on the info we were given. One of them was if we could get a photo of the kids. I mentioned to O that I sort of wished we hadn't requested the picture - that if the asthma was going to be a stumbling block, I'd rather not see how stinkin' cute they are.

Cut to Friday afternoon just before 5pm. We're on our way to dinner and an email from our caseworker pops up on my Black*berry. It's the photo. Except the Black*berry has done something to zap the attachment so not only can't we open the photo, but we can't even forward the email to another email address to open.

Torture.

So I've zipped off a friendly email to our caseworker asking her to resend on Monday.

And still we wait.

But really, when you approach these situations assuming they won't work out, it really makes the wait a lot easier. If only I'd know that four or five years ago, life would have been so much easier.

Oh well, live and learn.

One Big Party

Isn't it funny how different things can be from what you'd imagined?

While searching online for things to add to the life books, I visited birthfather's FB page several times to copy and print photos that I thought the kids would like to have someday.

My most recent and final visit was just last week, as I was preparing to finish up the last of the pages. I was jarred by what I saw on his homepage.

He had just "friended" birthmom.

Now, the one and only time I spoke with birthdad, he was very clear that birthmom was Satan incarnate. I guess things have changed.

You know what I did next, of course.

I zipped over to her FB page as fast as my little mouse would carry me.

(I choose to view myself as a modern-day Nancy Drew rather than as a creepy nosy stalker, by the way. Ahem.)

I was surprised to learn that she is still in the area. She's from another part of the country and I figured that her stay in this state would be very temporary once she'd signed her rights to the kids away.

But the thing that surprised me most was a post on her homepage where she talked about how excited she was for an upcoming 3-day trip to the beach and yee-haw, it was just going to be one big party.

I confess, I had to read it a couple of times before it computed.

This is a woman who has walked away from five children.

Five.

She did not one thing to get her two youngest back - just signed them over.

I suppose I always assumed that she was suffering as a result. Like, suffering to the point that she probably couldn't function very well.

Don't get me wrong, that's not what I HOPED for her. I'm clear that she has many serious issues and needs HELP more than she needs my disdain.

But, I guess I always just imagined that she must have been nearly paralyzed with grief.

How could it possibly be any other way?

I was wrong, though.

Because yee-haw, it was going to just be one big party.

I will never ever understand some people.

Never.

And I'm okay with that.

One Final Gift

When the kids moved in with us, they came with the stereotypical foster kids’ black trash bags filled with crappy, stained, too-small clothes, and a lot of broken toys.

We replaced almost everything. It was our pleasure to do so.

While they lived here, I never left the house without returning home with something for them. Often I didn’t make a big deal of it, tucking whatever I’d bought into their toy box, drawers, or bookshelves (so many books!) for them to run across later. I didn’t want to try and buy their love and certainly didn’t want them to become spoiled, but I really wanted them to have nice things.

Now, after all these months have passed, I am finishing up what I think will be one of our most important gifts to them.

Life books.

Life books are generally scrapbooks that tell the kids’ life story as best as it can be pieced together.

Their previous foster mom agreed in her ISP to maintain life books for them each of the 18 months they lived with her.

The kids came to us with nothing.

In fact, after the kids moved in with us, I asked her to please make me copies of the photos she’d taken of the kids so I could start the life books myself. She stated that she didn’t know how to do that, though I was welcomed to take the memory card from her camera and have them made myself.

She DID, however, know how to upload all those photos to her Facebook page, which is strictly against foster parent rules, by the way.

She simply didn’t want to pay the few dollars that it would have cost to have the photos printed.

Shameful.

As it was, I simply swiped the pictures off of her FB page and printed them out myself. There were probably only 20 photos each of the kids, but they were certainly better than nothing.

I then worked with birth grandmother who provided me stacks of photos from the kids’ earliest years.

I researched online and found photos of the kids’ sisters whom they have never met.

I found additional photos of the kids that birth father had put online from the one time he visited with them while they were in foster care.

I added photos of the hospitals where they were born, along with the dates, times, doctors’ names, their heights and weights at birth, and even what the weather was on those days. (It’s amazing what you can find online when you start poking around.)

I included copies of honors certificates and report cards and pictures they'd colored, along with letters written to them by the people they were closest to when they lived here.

Then of course, I added the ridiculous number of photos that we’d taken of them during their time with us, describing each one.

All told, each life book is well over one hundred fifty pages. Our caseworker will be picking them up in a couple of weeks and delivering them to the new foster family next month when she visits their home.

Given that all contact to/with the past has been cut off for the kids, I am quite certain that they will not see these books for years to come. I am hopeful, though, that foster mom will keep them for the kids to have when they are older (or send them with the kids if they are moved).

When the kids do see them, I hope they will understand that although some really awful things happened to them during their childhoods, they were also cared for by a lot of people who loved them dearly.

That’s what I hope, though I'll never know for sure. 

Choice

Sixty-two months have passed since I sat down to write my first blog post.

Holy Bananas. Sixty-two months.

It was January 17, 2007. We were about to make our first visit to the RE to hopefully get some help in adding to our family. I was excited, scared, and quite frankly angry that we were to the point of inviting doctors into a part of our lives that should have been private and sacred.

In closing, combining, and “sanitizing” my two blogs to start this one, I read back through each and every post I’d written over the years. Once I removed the identifying information, O also read through to double check that I’d taken out everything I’d meant to.

“Shell shocked.”

That is how I would best describe both of us after reliving the past five years.

For each sweet memory that my words evoked, there were so many more that were devastating to revisit. We could not believe how much we’d been through and sadly, how much of it we’d simply forgotten.

We have had so many children pass through the periphery of our lives – children we were approached about adopting either through foster care or privately. I thought about figuring out of the exact number as I read, but decided that it was probably best that I didn’t know. I’d guess that it was close to a hundred though, and for whatever reason none of the situations have lead to a forever child in our home.

Five years is a really long time. Five years can bring about a lot of change. And a lot of changes of heart.

As I said in a post a while back, I don't know if I want to be a mom. 

Perhaps it’s not so much the passage of time, but rather the fallout from the hell we lived through last year living with a violent child. I don’t really know.

I remember quite clearly retreating with O to our front porch so often last summer, holding hands and silently rocking, desperate to find just a moment of peace in our hearts and in our minds. We could not have felt more like prisoners if we’d been looking through the cell bars at the local county jail. It felt like a nightmare that we’d never wake up from.

If that's still impacting my views of what motherhood would be, I’m sure that time will bring more healing and my desire to be a parent will return.

But I’m starting to think that maybe it’s something bigger than that.

Heaven knows that we started this whole family-building adventure pretty late in life, relatively speaking. Tack on five years and I am now nearing my mid-40’s. I wonder if I have simply moved into another phase of my life, one where I’m just not certain that I'm still willing to give up all that we'd have to sacrifice in order to become parents. I love my husband madly. I love our little home and our pets who share it. I love spending time with friends and family. I love that we can travel when we want to. Simply put, I love that we come first. 

I have always appreciated this life we have created together because quite frankly, I never thought I’d have someone like O. But since the kids left nearly six months ago (to the day), I treasure it all the more. I revel in it. It feels like the most precious gift in the world to me and I am so very grateful for it, and for the return of peace to our lives. I have not forgotten what it was like to live in a war zone.

So I can’t quite put my finger on why I’m no longer in a super-motivated-must-make-it-happen frame of mind anymore when it comes to motherhood.

But I’m not.

And that leaves us with a choice.

Pants on Fire

A week or so ago, we were approached about an adoptive situation through D*C*F*S.

From the beginning, something hasn’t added up.

They state that the child has some pretty typical challenges for a child in foster care.

Nothing terribly dramatic.

Yet their current placement indicates issues well beyond what they are describing.

If our experiences over the last few years have taught us anything, it’s that if something doesn’t seem right, it’s probably very very wrong.

After sending a question-laden email, I think we landed on the answer.

Apparently the child’s issues were “magnified” to get them into the placement.

(Ahem.)

So let me get this straight.

You admit that you fudged information to get this child into their current foster home.

Yet you want us to agree to work with you to place the child in OUR home?

How could we ever, ever believe that you were telling US the unvarnished truth about this child?

We could’t.

We wouldn’t.

We’re out.

We're Southern - Of Course We Named Our Dog Biscuit

We have a new addition to the family. He is warm, soft, fluffy, a bit flaky, and brown around the edges.

Meet Biscu*it.

Bisc*uit and our other inside dog, The Squirrel, run and play and slam into walls as they slide across our hardwood floors. There have been occasional minor squabbles as they try to figure out who will be the boss, but they are having so much fun.

Biscuit is eight months old and spent the last three months in a cage at a “rescue”, waiting for someone to adopt him.

So we did.

And we are all pretty happy about it.

Certainly Not Me - now with added clarification

Did I tell you that we were approached about a newborn a while back?

I got the call while we were in Gettysburg in early November.

A teenage acquaintance of one of my friends found herself pregnant and had no desire to raise the baby.

It was a brief, fact-finding, “Are you interested?” call.

I said that we would be.

And that was about it.

I didn’t really give it any more thought.

Those calls come in about once a year or so, if you’re publicly trying to build your family through adoption.

Nothing ever comes of them.

Then a few weeks ago, I got a more urgent call.

This girl was in an unbelievably heartbreaking situation – adamant that she want to place her child for adoption yet being challenged by a family member who, while unable to safely keep/raise a child, would not support her decision and beyond that, was threatening her.

I was told to contact an attorney right away. To get answers to some very specific questions.

She wanted to meet us and time was of the essence.

The baby was due in about a month.

I literally spent an entire day on the phone.

Getting legal advice for her and for us.

Getting information on free legal services for her.

Getting information on places she could stay if she was thrown out of her home.

Getting information on free medical care.

Getting information on organizations that would drive her to and from doctor’s appointments.

Getting information on religious organizations that would support her in the days and weeks after the birth.

Whether she chose to keep the baby or not.

I even contacted our caseworker about the possibility of her (the birthmom) entering foster care in the event that she was thrown out of her home with no place to go. As licensed foster parents, I wanted to see if it was possible to move her in with us so we could support her through the rest of her pregnancy and help teach her how to care for her baby.

Throughout, I vowed not to get my hopes up.

I wouldn’t even consider that this situation would end with us having a child in our home and in our arms.  

I just wanted to support her, if only from afar.

I almost, almost made it.

And then one morning as I was waking up, a beautiful little girl’s name just popped into my head.

I was sunk.

Hope had reared its’ ugly head.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you’ll be able to guess what happened next.

Cue the ringing phone just a few hours later.

A brief call from my friend the gist of which was basically . . .

“Never mind.”

 Birth mom had moved in with birth dad.

And that was that.

There was vague mention of seeing how things unfolded as the situation was pretty tenuous.

But I’ve never heard another word.

Baby girl should be here in about a week if she arrives on her due date.

Or maybe she’s already weeks old.

Who knows?

Certainly not me.*
____________________________________________________
*This is in no way meant to imply that I'm upset with my friend for not keeping me "in the loop" on the day-to-day developments of birthmom's very tenuous situation. I have no NEED to know anymore, unfortunately. Any updates would have just kept me emotionally tied to a situation that clearly isn't going to unfold as I had hoped. That would have been torture. 

Sighting

I saw them yesterday.

For the first time since they left.

Just for a moment, as we drove past their church.

On the highway just before noon.

At 65 miles per hour.

They were running through the parking lot.

To their car.

In that way that little kids run.

Flat out.

Racing.

With clothes and hair flying.

Ironically, we'd just been to an early lunch with my parents.

At our favorite restaurant.

Which is also the new foster parents' favorite restaurant.

We went so early so to avoid any possibility of seeing them.

Or more importantly, of them seeing us.

In case foster parents decided that Mexican sounded good after church.

(Not many good places to eat in our/their small town.)

My three-second glimpse told me they were taller.

One's hair was longer.

But still just as beautiful.

It struck like an earthquake.

With no warning.

Shaking everything up just for a minute or so.

It's inevitable I suppose.

Those earthquake moments.

That turn me upside down and make me happy and sad at once.

Someone To Watch Over Me

We’re on high alert ‘round these parts today.

On Monday I got a call from Blooming*dale’s fraud prevention. They asked if I’d placed an online order for a purse a couple of days prior.

A $750 purse.

Ummm, no.

Commence a couple of hours of online investigation and phone calls to credit card companies, Blooming*dale’s fraud prevention, and . . .

*surprise* . . .

the discovery of a $450 charge at Macy*s.com made that very day. (More purses.)

It was all handled pretty quickly. Cards cancelled and reissued. Charges reversed. A package intercept issued with UPS to re-route the shipments back to the senders.

Except that in talking to the fraud prevention guy, he gave me some troubling news.

The person who placed these orders not only had my credit card information, but my correct email address, home phone number, and they were having the purses sent TO MY HOME.

“So you need to understand that someone is or will be watching your home in anticipation of the delivery.”

Say WHAT?

It made no sense, unless it was someone I knew.

I’d heard that a merchant I used had had their computers hacked recently. I called them and the girl I spoke with said that the FBI had traced the “hacker” to either Russia or Vietnam. She explained that the hackers will acquire account information and post it online using only location information. Then low-life dirtbags can log on to their website and purchase information on people in their areas for 25 cents apiece.

Voila!

That explained how a stranger in my area would have my information.

It was comforting to hear, because I didn’t have to then take inventory of my friends and family to figure out which one was a big fat thief. It was also SCARY to hear because holy cow people . . .

Stranger. Watching. My. House.

If the low-life dirtbag is tracking the package on the UPS website, they will already be aware that it has been intercepted and will not be delivered to my home.

If the lowlife dirtbag is simply going by Blooming*dale’s automated customer service, a very perky woman will have told them that their package will be delivered today.

So we wait.

There is no sneaking up on our home. Our street has very little traffic and we know most of the cars that “belong”. Our neighbor is aware of the situation. One of our dogs alerts us to anything that isn’t *quite right* in the area. (The other dog, our 8.5-pound trained killer attack Squirrel, alerts us when the ice maker dumps ice, when the washer is out of balance, and when a doorbell rings on TV. Not as helpful in this particular situation.) We have loaded gun and I can use it if I have to.

But the thing that brings me the most peace as I sit here at my desk?

My loving husband, who decided to work from home today just because he loves me and knows I’m spooked. 

I may not have the money to keep myself in the style of low-life dirtbags (a $750 purse?!?!?) but I have something infinitely better.

I have someone to watch over me.

Thank God

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.

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.

Silence

I've kept a journal since I was a senior in high school. There have been times when I've laid it aside for weeks and even months at a time, occasionally because life has been too busy or because there just wasn't much going on. Most often though, if I am silent there is something big brewing. My blog is no exception.

On August 12, the two children who'd been with us since New Years' Day - the two children we'd planned to adopt - were sent to a new foster home at our request.

Suffice it to day that it was a HELLACIOUS late spring and summer, one of self-doubt, guilt, pain, violence and then knowing and finally resolve and peace.

I wish that I could share the details, mostly to let others who are considering disrupting a placement know that they are not alone. But as with all things foster-care related, there are so many things that must remain unspoken. Let's try and figure out what I CAN say, though.

First I guess I would say that they were (are) wonderful children. We are and will forever be grateful to have been a part of their lives.

Secondly, I can say with absolute certainty that we gave them a wonderful life while they were with us. They had experiences they never would have had. One of them came to us unable to read and left our home in the average reading group of their class. There were trips to aquariums and to see bald eagles care for their babies. They rode in parades, played sports, took lessons, and went to summer camps. They stayed with us in a mountain cabin and swam in streams. They fed emus and zebras. They built snowmen and made snow angels. They had health issues taken care of.

Two of my favorite memories were made on our front porch. One night I woke them after they were both asleep, bundled them up, and took them out front to see big fat snowflakes flying through the air (a rare sight in our neck of the woods). It was perfectly still and perfectly quiet and we were all mesmerized for a time. Another evening just at dusk, we gathered them up to sit on our steps and watch a couple of bats fly through the air at tree-level, catching bugs.

There were hugs and boo-boos kissed and hours and hours of conversations and a lot of laughter.

There were also things we were not told before we accepted the placement.

One of those things D*F*C*S absolutely knew about and did not reveal to us.

The other was known by the first foster mom and she chose not to share it with social services OR with us, until the day the kids left our home. Then suddenly she unburdened herself to me, saying things that literally left my jaw hanging open. She described nearly word-for-word the things that we experienced in our home - violent things - that she'd experienced with one of the children on a daily basis for the months they were with her. She finished up lamely with, "I thought I told you."

This is a woman who claims to be a good Christian and who framed herself as someone who would be totally honest with the questions we asked before we accepted the placement. This is a woman who chose to withhold information from us and more importantly from the social workers who might have gotten help for this child 18 months before they started receiving it. Because she was too LAZY. Because she could not be bothered. I have no idea how she lives with herself.

But I digress . . .

The fact of the matter is that if we'd known of either situation, we would have declined the placement without a moments' hesitation. We would never even have agreed to meet with them.

As it was, we did everything we knew to do for the kids and did everything we knew to do to make the situation work. I could write pages about all that we did to seek help, but it would feel too much like I was trying to justify myself. To be honest, I don't have to answer to anyone but God and my husband, and they already know all the steps we took.

Our choice finally had to come down to this . . .

Were we willing to live in a home where there was violence - where there was a good possibility that as the child got older, we would live in fear for our safety?

We placed the phone call to have them moved.

This was one of the two most heartbreaking choices of my life yet I have not, for one moment since, doubted that we did the right thing for all of us. Ultimately we would have come to resent this child and the pain and chaos they brought to our otherwise-loving home. That would have been a recipe for disaster. The child deserved better than that and so did we.

We love their new foster parents and pray every day that the kids have made their last move. My fear is that the new foster parents will get the same run-around and lack of support and help that we did, and will at some point throw up their hands and have them moved too. I would never judge them for that. How could I, after all? But it is my very real fear.

I have lost what little faith I once had in the foster care system and in many of the people who work in it. Everyone can see and clearly agrees that this child is troubled and needs help, yet the people who are PAID to advocate for these kids are failing them at every turn.

So there you have it - the reason for my silence. I'm sure I will have more to say in the weeks and months to come. In fact, you may not be able to shut me up.

Happy Almost Birthday To Me

I spent a few minutes peeking back at my blogs - something I never, ever do. I have all my posts printed out and stuck in a journal for perusing ONE DAY, but for some reason I just can't bring myself to spend much time looking back.

As my birthday approaches, though, I couldn't help but take a little time to walk down memory lane, and see where I was a year ago - two years ago - three years ago, and (gulp) four years ago. Dang, I've been blogging for a long time!

On April 1, 2007 : I can continue to live my life from a place of resenting what I don’t have and letting it cloud and taint and define everything else or . . . in the face of infertility, I can try really hard to remember that the struggle to have a baby is only one part of what is a really blessed and sweet life - a life that I don’t want to miss a moment of, whether we become parents or not. Because after all, my most heartfelt prayer has already been answered. His name is D.

On April 1, 2008 : What a beautiful day I have for spending my very last day in my 30’s. After a night of thunder, the sun is shining and the dogwoods are in bloom. I do so love April in the South. I’ve been a little bit out of sorts the past few days – nothing too dramatic, just quiet and “in my head” more than usual. I suppose it’s natural as you approach such a big birthday to take stock of your life, where you are and where you’re going. Forty has always been my “drop dead” date for getting pregnant. Yes, I realize that women in their forties have perfectly healthy babies every day, but for me this is the age where the risk of complications starts to outweigh my desire to have a biological child. So, I honestly expected that as this milestone crept closer, my sadness about not having a biological child would probably crescendo. Yeah . . . not so much. I even TRIED to get worked up about it. It’s just not there. Now, I haven’t deluded myself into thinking that there won’t be “why not me” moments in the future; that I won’t feel a twinge sometimes when I see a new mom and her little one, but I think I am actually starting to make peace with my infertility. That being said, I want to be a mom. Now. Right now. Immediately. If not sooner. The days are passing so quickly. Days and weeks and holidays and time we could be together. My maternal instinct is just screaming out for a child to love. However, my maternal instinct might as well pipe down because there’s no progress on that front. The thing I keep trying to remind myself is that there is nothing I can do. I’m not in control of any of this. Instead, I have to believe that there is someone out there much greater than myself who is leading us towards our child, whether it’s that little boy or not, and that someday I’ll look back and see that it all unfolded exactly as it should have.Then I have to remind myself of the exact same thing five minutes later. And again eight minutes after that. **TOMORROW I AM FORTY! WHERE IS MY CHILD?!?!?!**

On April 1, 2009 : My birthday is tomorrow – the big 4-1, and I usually use that occasion to take stock of my life – where I am and where I still want to go, if I’m making the “right” decisions, what I want my next year to look like. And I have to say, I’m happy. Really and truly happy. Of course there are things I would change. I would lose a dress size or ten.I would be working on the novel floating around in my head. I would probably have a little one running around our home. Yes, I said “probably” because there are moments when D and I aren’t sure if we reeeeeeeally want a child in our home. It sounds ridiculous to say, given how much we love kids and how hard we’ve had to fight to get licensed as adoptive parents. (Still aren’t there yet!!!) Simply put, we love our life together and we had a very small taste of what it was like to add another person to our mix. Now granted, there were TWO people and they arrived on short notice, heavily caffeinated and sugared-up, to a house that wasn’t nearly as child-proofed as we’d thought. So the first afternoon/evening was a bit harried. Okay, more than a bit. But I think our time with the kids was a pretty good representation of what we can expect as full-time parents, and there were parts of it we simply didn’t like. Most importantly, D & I didn’t get to spend much time together. We’d wake up and after a few minutes of snuggling and watching the morning news, for me it was all about the kids – getting them up and dressed and filling their little tummies as D got ready for work. D would come home in the afternoon and by that time, I was ready for a break and would scurry into the bedroom to stretch out for a few minutes, or into the computer room, shutting the door and catching up on the outside world. At night, we crawled into bed and laid there watching TV, somewhat shell-shocked and exhausted, waiting for sleep to take us. We were ships that passed in the night. Of course, I know we’d get “better” at the rhythm of caring for kids (errrrr . . . ONE child. Only one.), and would then have more time to connect with each other. We just want to make sure that we never do anything to disrupt or damage our marriage. It’s the number one priority for both of us. So that’s the source of our hesitation. That being said, we both miss the kids and talk fondly about them all the time. If their foster parents called us today and said, "We can no longer care for them", we'd take them in a heartbeat. I guess maybe it’s just hard to be committed in every moment to bringing a “mystery child” into our home. We know nothing about him or her – age, race, sex, situation, likes and dislikes, behavior, etc . . . I think once we have a little face in our minds, and our hearts, our hesitation will fade into the background and we’ll hit the ground running and find a way to make it work. But the comforting thing is, if for whatever reason it never happens, we will spend happy lives together feeling blessed every day that we found each other. I already have my birthday gift. I get to live my life with a wonderful man. Happy (almost) Birthday to me.

April 1, 2010 : no post (I was hiding and mourning the loss of a foster/adoptive placement.)

April 1, 2011 : This morning I look like a homeless person. My hair is wild and crazy and has yet to see a brush. I still have on my nightgown, though I did have the decency to throw on a pair of shorts with it. I have pulled one April fool's prank - the old "Oh-my-gosh-kids-we-overslept-and-school-has-already-started-hurry-hurry-hurry-gag." I made breakfast and packed snacks. I tamed two serious cases of bedhead. I listened to exciting plans for my birthday which involve two children hiding and jumping out and yelling "SURPRISE!" I wrote a check for tee-ball pictures. I found my caramel corn recipe which I will be making for the school bake sale next week. I straightened a bookcase for the fifth time this week. (Why do children have no concept of how to put books back into a bookcase properly? No matter how many times you show them? And why does that have to be one of my pet peeves? Why, oh why?) I have vacuumed the house, carefully avoiding eleventy thousand teeny tiny Lego pieces. I have laid out a cheerleading uniform and a baseball uniform for tomorrow's festivities. I have wiped toothpaste off of the sink for the 75th day in a row. I have sealed up a letter and photos to be sent to two loving bio. grandparents.

My life looks so very changed than it did even a year ago. I have different worries and new joys. I have new priorities and different frustrations. I have more laughter and more tears. I have a husband who I love beyond all measure, and, strangely enough, I have two children - not mine officially yet, but they are mine forever in my heart.

Happy almost birthday to me.

Angels on Earth

O's 2nd cousin J was killed in a car accident last week. I only met him once, at a funeral almost exactly a year ago to the day of his funeral. O hadn't seen him for years before that. J had been pretty wild in his teens and early twenties, but by all accounts, the love and persistance of his wife helped him turn his life around. By the time O met up with him again, J was as nice a person as you'd ever want to know.

J was driving home from working out of state last week, pulling a trailer behind his truck. The trailer hit a patch of ice and started fishtailing. It broke loose and flipped but by that time, J's truck was out of control and it too went off the road and flipped. He was not wearing his seatbelt and was thrown from the vehicle.

The guy driving behind J saw the accident happen and raced to J's side. He knew by the injuries that J would not be saved, so he sat down beside him, gathered J in his arms and prayed with him until he passed, holding his body until the paramedics arrived.

In a strange twist of fate, this man is best friends with J's aunt's cousin (confusing, I know) and was able to contact J's father to tell him what happened, and to let him know that his son was well taken care of in the moments before his death. I cannot imagine what J's parents and wife must be going through. I don't even want to try to imagine. But there must be some small comfort in knowing that this man they loved so very much did not die by himself on the side of the road, but died with someone's arms around him, whispering words of comfort and love.

It's easy in this day and age to become cynical about people, but this tragedy reminded me that there truly are angels walking around on this Earth, and I am so glad that one of them found his way to J when he needed one the most.