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.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

Where I once had a (mostly) sparkling clean and tidy home, I now have very good intentions.

Where we once had two lovely guest rooms for out-of-town visitors, we now have two comfy aerobeds.

Where we once e-a-s-e-d into our morning, we are now awakened promptly at 6:30pm by the world’s most heinous alarm clock.

Where I once spent time online looking for fabulous antiques auctions, I now spend time online looking for fabulous childrens’ consignment stores.

Where we once spent weekends jumping in the car and driving off in search of adventure, we now jump in the car and drive off in search of awesome playgrounds.

Where our home was once peaceful and tranquil, it is now filled with nearly constant whistling, running, singing, chattering, laughing, squealing, playing, noise, fighting, falling, tapping, wiggling, whining, reading and, at the moment, a Nin*tendo DS playing 18 inches from my left ear.

Where I once ran our dishwasher twice a week, I now run it every day. Ditto with the washing machine. Who wears all these clothes?

Where I once watched the weather hoping beyond hope for a snowy forecast in our little corner of Alabama, I now pray for NO MORE SNOW DAYS.

Where our fridge and cabinets once held grown-up foods, we are now inundated with juice boxes and raisin boxes and organic animal crackers.

Where Bravo was usually on somewhere in my home, we now are experiencing our second childhoods watching “Land of the Lost”, “Scooby Doo” (The REAL Scooby Doo, not that communist NEW Scooby Doo), and a ridiculous amount of trashy programming on the Disney Channel. Anyone watched that crap lately?

Where the sounds James Taylor used to come from our stereo speakers, I can now hear Hannah Montana's irritating voice played over and over and over. Ugh.

Where our pup Jackson once only had two people to love her, she now has four bodies to flop down on top of on the sofa.

Where I once constantly chased my cats around with the camera, they now get a bit of a break as I chase two other monkeys around with my camera.

It’s been a big, huge, scary, exciting change. I would love to share more but I cannot, of course. I will return one of these days, though, hopefully with an adoption story and a ridiculous number of photos.

It’s happened for us. Can you even believe it?

Thanks to those of you who abided with me during our 3+-year-wait. I would not have made it through without your support.

Little Mark is going home.

Letter to a Caseworker

This is the e-mail sent from my home to our caseworker this afternoon.

Dear __________________ ,

Please for the love of all that is good and decent, find my owners a child so they'll stop doing things like this to me.

The sooner the better.

Love, Jackson