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.