Tonight, I'm nursing a broken heart. It's happened before, of course, when the boy that I liked didn't feel the same way, when the person I loved, a fixture in my life, passed on. I felt that shattering inside, cried those nonstop tears, wondered how I would ever get through it. But this is a brand new heartbreak, because today the social worker called. Instead of vague ideas and hypotheticals, she called to give me a date. Two weeks. In two weeks, our little girl will be moving back home with her family. All I could say was, "Oh," as the lump formed in my throat. Because we knew this was coming. We had been told this was the plan. This is what we signed up for. And yes, I can think of a hundred different reasons why this is going to be good for everyone, how this is the best plan given the messed up nature of the world we live in, where parents aren't always the best people to raise their children, where a flawed but well-meaning foster care system is necessary. I won't have to worry about that hair anymore. She won't talk back to me when I speak. Our next holiday celebration isn't going to be hijacked by her behavior. She won't be able to teach my sons anymore bad habits, and maybe the ones they've learned over the past eight months will die out over time. She'll be with the people who look like her. She'll be able to see her mom more. She'll be someone else's responsibility, which would mean I can finally relax.
But every time I think of it, the actual date, packing up the dolls and hair products and clothes and shoes that have drifted to every corner of our house, I just keep crying those non stop heartbreak tears. Because we are her family, and I am her mother except in the one way that matters to a judge. After living with us for eight months, she has become my daughter, and I love her. I just hung our new family photo yesterday, the one with Chris and I surrounded by daffodils, with four kids spread across our laps, 3 blonde boys and one brown girl. That is my family, but in two weeks, it won't be. Instead of listing all the ways she bugs me, I keep thinking how much I'll miss her. I'll miss seeing her grow up. I'll miss all the development that will happen after this point, won't see the final result of all that we've poured into her. I won't know for sure that she is safe, that she is being fed, read to, hugged, given appropriate boundaries. Maybe her (other) family will still call and invite us to see her, but it's not guaranteed.
We knew this was going to happen, theoretically when we signed up to be foster parents, and practically, when her social worker told us she would be moved sometime this summer. And I've said myself that I just can't see us adopting her, signing up for another 15 years of being exclusively responsible for her, making her a permanent member of our family. Right now, I wish I could be more calculating, more rational about all of this. I wish....I don't know. That I wasn't human? That the very act of caring for someone day in and day out didn't forge a deep and lasting connection between two people? That I could just smile and wave and tell her goodbye and never think of her again? I honestly kept thinking that when it was time for her to go, we would just go back to our regular lives. But now I see the flaw in that thinking, because there is no going back, there is no life previously in progress that has just been waiting, static. We are all different than we were 8 months ago, both because the boys are young and that is just the nature of early childhood, but also because this girl came into our house and she infiltrated every one of us. How are my boys going to react to losing the person they have started calling their sister? Part of me thinks there will be some relief, a welcome quiet in the mornings and in the car and all day long, Probably they will notice and appreciate that there is one less person to share with, one less person to occupy their mother's time and her lap. But at the same time, I think they'll miss playing with her. I think they'll miss her nonstop energy, her whole-hearted joining in of whatever game they devised. We've laid the groundwork to answer their questions, of course. They know she has another mommy, another home. We've said she's just here for a while, but they will never have to go. I've whispered that this is their forever home and I am their forever mommy in the quiet minutes before they fall asleep.
I keep thinking back to a conversation that Chris and I had at Friendly's (because, of course it was at Friendly's, where every pivotal moment in our relationship has happened, every deep conversation, every big decision) a few years ago. Michael was just a baby, only a few months old and just coming out of the infant drug addiction that brought him to our family. His social worker had informed us that she was contacting family members, looking for a kinship placement for him. We sat across from each other, the little guy fast asleep next to me, and Chris said, "I think we should have another baby." I shook my head. No. I didn't want to be pregnant again. I was no longer interested in growing our family biologically. And besides, I knew the real reason he wanted me to get pregnant was to salve his heart as he faced the loss of Michael. He wanted to make a baby that they wouldn't be able to take from us, because there would be no conflicting loyalties, no one standing before the king and asking to cut him in half. Another baby would be all ours. But that wasn't the solution to losing Michael, and I told him that. Chris was disappointed, but he knew I was right. I wish I could summon that calm person right now. Because I just keep thinking about how nice it would be to get pregnant, to have a new child to look forward to while I am losing this one that I love. It won't happen, because we took that option off the table about a year ago. There are always more foster kids though. More babies and toddlers and preschoolers who need a home, a safe adult to look out for them. As much as I want to call Children's Services and ask them to send me another, I know that I need a break, at least for a few months. I need to let myself grieve. I need to feel what I'm feeling, because there is no "fix" for this.
Time heals all wounds. Right? So if I can just give it time, maybe I can stop crying. If I just think about all that she has learned and experienced while in our care, maybe I can tell myself that we did what we could, what she needed, and release her. Maybe if I can quiet this internal storm, I can hear the voice that reminds me that He loves all His children, that she will always be in His care, that His love is big enough and deep enough and transforming enough that we'll all be able to get through this. And I need to remember the look on her face, the huge smile that broke out when I finally dried my eyes long enough to tell her that she was going to see her grandma, that she gets to have a sleepover this weekend. She knows who her family is, every last one of us, and she belongs with them as much as she belongs here.
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