Blessed by Crocodile

I was only 95% sure I never wrote this post.  I thought maybe I did and I just didn't remember.  Afer all, I've much neglected this blog.  But it's true, I never brought myself to write the "Blessed by" post that I have for all of my other foster children.

Just yesterday, I was buzzing with exhilaration.  The day came.  His adoption was finalized.  He and his sisters will move no more.  It is official, and they have a great family.  We have kept in touch and it's fantastic.  I even asked permission to share pictures of him and was given it, something I had dreamed of since Pterodactyl.  My friends and family are celebrating with me, celebrating his adoption and also just getting to share our love openly and see this adorable and amazing little guy.

Today, I am coming down from that high.  I am still grateful and thankful.  But I still ache from how much I love him and miss him.

So, it seemed like time to finally write.

What I Learned from Crocodile

• Some kids have so. much. energy.  I joked that when Crocodile was sick, he had the energy level of an average child.  Nothing tired him out.
• Sometimes that energy is not happy energy, but being stuck in the "flight" mode of "fight or flight."
• I learned specific things about kids with Crocodile's trauma that I didn't know before.  I also learned more about trauma-related behavior changing with age, and he was with us the longest of our foster placements.
• I learned some daycares can be in your corner when there are behavior issues, and how encouraging that feels.
• I learned the heartbreak of witnessing the end of a case, of termination of parental rights.  But I also witnessed the joy of adoption and reunification of siblings.  I got to see more of the next chapters than ever before.
• I learned what it was like to sign "no" on an "intent to adopt" form, and while it was for the best of reasons (that he would be adopted with his siblings), it would still be surreal.  I also learned how quickly people give up on keeping siblings together, which thankfully did not work.

What I Loved about Crocodile

• His exuberance.  He was almost always up for excitement and going places.  He ran at life like if he didn't get to it first, it might go away.  Trying new things with him was almost always a blast: sledding, camping, biking, carnival rides.
• His athleticism.  He is just a marvel to watch.  I had to actually put effort into throwing rocks into a river to make sure a 4-year-old didn't show me up.  Incredibly strong, incredibly coordinated, incredibly fast.  He could hit a baseball, hike two miles without a sweat or whine, do rock-climbing, and ride a bike without training wheels at age 3.  It was a lot of fun to experience and to brag on.
• His grin.  He has smiley eyes and an enormous grin, a face so expressive that it came off cheesy in some photos but it just captured your heart in person.
• His voice.  We barely understood a word he said when he came to us as a toddler, and while he talked much more by the time he moved, he had his own sound-swaps that were adorable.  He also talked with exclamation points pretty much all of the time.
• His deep love for people.  Crocodile had a way of making you feel absolutely adored.  I know he made his biological mom and his mom's boyfriend feel that way.  I know he made his sisters feel that way.  I know he made us feel that way.  I know he makes his new family feel that way.  The love this kid radiates is undeniable.

Keep running at life and loving big, little guy.  It's okay that we love you so much that it still hurts.  I hope you feel that love like we still feel your love.  You are loved.  You are loved.  You are loved.

It deals with me.

Sometimes I get tired of processing how foster care affects me.  I have a therapist for other reasons, and that's a good thing.  We've talked about how other things may be coming out during this break, other things about past fostering experiences, past losses and challenges.  It is good.  I have supportive people processing with me.  That's also good.  I'm a fairly reflective person, but after talking to the third or fourth person in a week about how I'm doing, sometimes I start to get monotone, start to close up and give shorter answers.

But I have to keep dealing with the grief, the stress, and the worry or it deals with me.

I felt like I had a couple rough weeks after Crocodile's move, then I was feeling unusually fine, then I was moving into what felt like "normal" missing of a special person.  I watched videos of him and felt a little sad.  I thought of things he would like to do with us and felt the loss tug my heart.  Then I moved on.  I breathed a sigh of relief that maybe this was it.

Then I started sinking down again.  I had a day of really not being okay.  I had just talked to a dear friend about how change just makes us sad, and it frustrates us that we have to endure it, we just need to.  I still felt so frustrated with myself.  I just didn't want to.

Back up, back down.  Today was a difficult start because of a dream.  I dreamt Caterpillar crossed the street running to the caseworker I was with.  He was about 4 years old.  It took him a moment, but he recognized me and just glowed.  I embraced him and picked him up off the ground.  But then he got very serious and kept saying "I made baby sick."  What baby?  We crossed the street.  There was a house with four kids, including an older baby hooked up to some otherworldly sorts of tubes.  There were no adults in the home.  Did he reunify?  What was going on?  The caseworker disconnected the baby from the tubes and we walked around together some more, Caterpillar, the baby, the caseworker and myself.  The caseworker was going on and on about how happy the baby was.  She was cute, but I was upset, anxious.  Why had Caterpillar said "I made baby sick?"  Who was taking care of these kids?

I woke up.  Soon after, Dinosaur came into our room earlier than he's supposed to and I blew up at the poor child.

It's still dealing with me, that's for sure.

Tonight, I wish I could give any of them a hug.  See a smile.  See them run to the arms of their loving caregiver and see they are loved though I can't show it to them daily.  Breathe in the scent of each child.  Exhale.

April 2013

Something made me stop and think the other day about how the dates lined up.  Were we foster parents yet when Crocodile was born?  I thought through the timelines, and no, we were a couple weeks away from being licensed.

So, I thought more about April 2013.

Dinosaur was 4.  Rhinoceros was 2.  I didn't have a child in elementary school yet.

We were stressing over licensing details, even though the process had been pretty smooth.  What on earth could we have found stressful in that?  It's hard to understand now.  I was teaching in the evenings and B was working at his old company.

Pterodactyl, Beetle, and Caterpillar were not born yet.

Cricket was a couple months old.  Was her sister taking care of her?  Her grandma that had her own issues?  Had she met Gina yet, her fictive kin "granny" that would eventually adopt her?  What did she look like?  I never saw baby pictures of her.

Crocodile was born.  It would reveal too much of his story to tell what I know about April 2013 and Crocodile.  It was a hopeful time following tragedy, but some were still tentative about that hope.  And unfortunately that hope was fleeting.  I have seen baby pictures of him, true newborn pictures that I was quick to save from Facebook and would later send on to his adoptive family.  He looks like your basic newborn, and his face changed a lot from his newborn face.  Still precious, though.

Now it's April 2017.

Dinosaur is 8.  Rhinoceros is 6.  They're both in elementary school.  They have been big brothers to five children and said five goodbyes.  They have helped, fought with, taught, played with, ignored, cuddled, and loved those five children.

I am teaching part-time during the day and B works at a new company, similar hours.

Pterodactyl, Beetle, and Caterpillar, and Tadpole are all 3 or 4 years old.  I assume Pterodactyl and Beetle were adopted by the families they moved to, but was never told for sure.  I am even less sure about Caterpillar.  Tadpole was adopted by his foster family he was with when we did respite, and I've seen him several times since.

Cricket is 5.  She has been adopted with her sister.  She'll be in kindergarten this fall.

Crocodile is 4 and is living with his new parents and five sisters, two that were there when he was that newborn in April 2013.  Hopefully they will finalize adoption this year.  I wonder and worry about those hopeful people in his life in April 2013.  I pray redemption is still ahead.

"He was my best friend."

"And now he's gone."

How am I doing since Crocodile moved?  Part wistful and a little sad, part relieved, not too many really strong emotions at this point.  Except when Rhinoceros says things like that.

He and Dinosaur will be okay.  We will walk them through it.  They aren't acting too out of character.  But they're sad, and then I get sad.

Time to plan some things to look forward to before this becomes a rut.  Time to do some special things with Rhinoceros and Dinosaur.  Time to listen to the pain and sadness, feel it myself, and then move forward again.

Transition success

Few of our transitions for a foster child leaving our home have gone as we hoped.  Thankfully, we have never had the case of a completely unexpected move of a child, like a relative being identified and the child moves that same day, or a goal change in court and a child suddenly going home with a parent.  But we have had planned transitions that speed up and slow down sporadically. 

Pterodactyl was getting prepped for a move, then it stalled, then it wasn't going to happen, then the next day it was and she moved.  Beetle changed plans where he was moving, then moved instantly, but he had only been with us such a short time.  I would still go back and change that and have visits first.  Cricket knew her new home well because of sibling visits and some overnights and weekends there.  But we had the longer-than-expected wait for licensing, then a move before we went on a trip assuming it would be complete, then a move back to us, then a final move.  Thankfully she was still excited to live with her sister, but that transition was very hard on all of us.  Only Caterpillar's was really decent.  Gradual visits then transition, and we even had a little goodbye party, though it was pretty small as he hadn't been with us long enough for a lot of people to really know of him as a part of our family.

Praise God, this was a good transition.  There was some stressful stuff for us at a couple points (a sudden attempt to change the date of the move earlier than we could handle, being asked for input then having our input ignored) but in the end and thanks to a little pushback from B, we did get the transition we hoped for.  Here's what it looked like, though keep in mind it wasn't until week 4 that we were 100% sure his adoptive family was committed to adopting him.  Let's call the adoptive family "The Youngs."

Week 1: The Youngs come over to our house with all of their kids (minus one of the adult kids) and their family and ours go sledding.  Crocodile meets them.
Week 2: Crocodile's sisters come here for a sibling visit, the Youngs drop them off.
Week 3: Crocodile goes over to the Youngs' for an afternoon.
Week 4: Crocodile goes over to the Youngs' for a full day.
Week 5: Crocodile goes over to the Youngs' for a weekend.
Week 6: Crocodile goes over to the Youngs for Friday - Tuesday.
Week 7: Crocodile moves in with the Youngs.

When the Youngs brought Crocodile back to us Tues. of "Week 6," the four adults told him about the move.  We told Dinosaur and Rhinoceros a couple days earlier, so they would have time to process without Crocodile around.

On the day before the move, we had such a positive day for our family and for him.  We had pancakes and went to a museum in the morning.  Then we had a "Crocodile's moving" party with our local support people: old friends and their kids, newer church friends and a few more kids, our babysitter and her family.  It was a uncharacteristically warm day, more like May than February, and the whole crowd played outside in our yard.  Kids and older people took turns pitching balls to Crocodile for him to hit.  People laughed and pushed kids on swings.  We felt the love of our community, Crocodile felt the love, and people who wanted some closure could have it.  It was beautiful and I wish everyone could have it each foster placement.

We had a little down time as we loaded up the van with the rest of his belongings (some had gone to his new home on Tuesday), then we took off with our whole family.  We played outside some more, saw his new room, ate dinner, and said our goodbyes with promises from his new family that they wanted us in his life.

It was a day that could not have gone much better.

And yet I still sit here the following day, with a heaviness in my chest that's increased throughout the day.  The grief that I've felt waiting and lurking since the day I met him, since I heard his name that I love, since I saw his dark scared eyes the first night, and his huge grin the next day.  The grief that waited beneath as he called me Mommy and first said he loved me, as he ran to my arms for comfort or with joy.  The grief that waited beneath as I signed the paper that said that we were not going to seek adopting him.  It takes its full place in my heart.  It isn't overwhelming me right now, as I also have some feelings of peace and relief.  But it is clearly there now.

One day at a time, I will walk through it, and I'll walk with my children.  It's what we do, and I have no regrets about it.

Valentines

On Valentine's Day, Crocodile was at the heart of a transition to his new adoptive family.  He woke up in their home.  He went with his new mom to his sisters' school and got to be there for their parties.  He went shopping with her and picked out eight balloons: two for his biological sisters, three for his soon-to-be-sisters through adoption (two are adults), two for his foster brothers, and one for himself.  Within this week, he will officially be switching from living with two brothers to living with five sisters.

Balloons were played with, balloons were chased, balloons were broken.

He made valentines for everyone as well.  For our family, for some friends, and some extras to bring a little late to his preschool for his last few days there.

We try to help him understand the move, all of us together, current parents and new parents.  It's hard to know what names to use.  It's hard to know how to express love and confidence in the plan and at the same time be sensitive to his mixed feelings.  He didn't cheer, and he didn't cry. He ran around a bit.  I think I talked too much.  He answered some of our questions.  He called me Mommy a lot and kept coming back to me.  We talk about his new school, which he has already gotten to see.  We talk about his new house.  We talk about living with his sisters all the time, forever.  We talk about coming to visit on his birthday.

He gave me a valentine that said Mom.

We will always love you, Crocodile.

When B gets real

You don't know my husband.  But even those that do, I wonder if they do.

He's hilarious.  He's outgoing to the core, always has something to say even if it's jumping to tease someone maybe a little bit too soon.  He loves a good debate.  He self-identifies as lazy and a bit of pain in the ass.  He's not reeled in by anything sappy or touchy-feely.  A lot of his side of conversations sound like Dad stand-up comedy: "And then the toddler peed on the floor and you wonder what you've done with your life."

I wouldn't trade any of that.  Boy, does it help me take everything less seriously.  And I more than make up for taking things seriously, taking things personally, and taking on the pain and feelings of others.

But there are rare times that there is a B that comes through that does take it seriously, so seriously that it takes the air out of the room.  So seriously that he is shaking with emotion.  Not anger.  Not hurt.  Just deep, deep conviction.

This is how B was in the meeting that we had to fight for the right adoptive placement for Crocodile.

I won't go into what the options were or how we ended up with a strange amount of influence in it, but just know that had we not fought as we did, there would have been an outcome we would have questioned the rest of our lives.  I was having trouble advocating as that's not my nature at all.  I like to keep the peace.  I'm a people pleaser.  So, we made sure B was at the meeting, and I expected him to speak strongly, but I didn't quite expect this.

He laid it all out there; his heart, his convictions, and everything he believed was best for Crocodile.  And as he spoke, I saw his lip quiver.  I was actually confused what was going on.  Was B feeling okay?

He was crying.

For the second, maybe third, time in the 17 years I have known him, his eyes were full of tears.  With love for Crocodile.  With conviction for what is best.  With justice and with truth.

I cry for everything.  Rarely for justice and truth.  Usually because someone left their coat in the middle of the floor again or something.

It still has me a bit undone.  What was this strange planet this meeting was on?

At the same time, I know it is my B.  He is not just the jokes and the sighs at the toilet paper unrolled on the floor.  He may not be a "kid person" by nature, but he is a faithful, devoted parent, and one heck of a fighter for kids when it's needed.

Fighting for him

I am not looking forward to breaking the news when Crocodile moves.  It's still not official news, but we're getting closer.

I've imagined it for months and months of course, but the imagined responses get more dramatic as time goes on.  Over a year and a half.  Sometimes they're based on real responses I get when I convey that he will likely move.

"But... after all this time with you?"
"I just assumed you were adopting him!"
"He's like a part of your family now."
"He's spent almost half of his life with you."
"Wow, that's going to be tough on your kids."
"Aren't you going to fight to keep him?"

And twice now we have had people involved in a case assume that we would be a competing party when we won't be.  It's so strange to clear that up.  I feel like I have to say ten times how much I love him to counter how strange "we aren't trying to adopt him" sounds.

Don't get me wrong, we would be a competing party if we needed to be for him.  I tried not to get too into imagining the scenarios, but I pictured one in which his sisters were matched with an adoptive family near us but they didn't find one for him, and we could be the family to keep them in touch.  Pretty unlikely, but maybe it could happen.  Or the search for an adoptive family went on really, really long and he was having more behavior challenges, and it was best not for him to move.  We never said never for adopting him.  But we said our answer was no until it was clear, absolutely clear, that it was not just a good option, but a necessary option.

Instead, we're fighting for him to be with his sisters.  We're fighting for him to have a good and secure transition.  We're fighting for him to be supported with services, good information, and good records.

Fighting for him means letting him go.

Acronym of the Day: TPR

TPR stands for termination of parental rights.  Online I see it used as a verb (TPR-ed) or a noun (TPR happened last month).  It means that the parents lose their parental rights to their foster children.  They can no longer have a say in how they will be raised, medical decisions and information, etc.  They have no plan to accomplish to regain custody of their children.  They are parents in history and they may possibly have parental roles in open adoption scenarios, but they are no longer legally parents.

As I said in a previous post, Crocodile's parents' rights were terminated.  He is the first foster child that we've been through that experience with.  Some of our previous cases also reached that point, but not when the children were with us, so we didn't experience it firsthand.

There is such deep sadness within TPR, and even people who believe it is the right outcome for the children feel awful during the court events that end in TPR.  The case must be made strongly, so everything possible is used against parents.  It surprised me how wrong that felt, that while I may have supported the outcome, and I wanted to object and say that some of this really wasn't that bad, and really, are we all such perfect parents?  Do they have to bring up this, and that, and that?  Can't we just boil it down to the most substantial reasons for this terrible thing, this permanent separation between parents and their children?

I expected the sadness, but I did not expect some dramatic events that happened on the day of TPR.  I won't go into detail, but the desperation was palpable. the grief so thick in the air, churning into anger.

I dream of better solutions.  Could victims of some types live in intentional communities that support them as parents, that help them heal?  Could we as a society prevent these terrible days that begin lifetimes of loss?

So many people in the room clearly wanted this day over with.  Some would walk away having spent another sad day in their professions.  We would walk away knowing we would continue to care for our foster child who would no longer visit parents, at least not for a long time, and would eventually need to process this loss.  His parents would walk away knowing a door had closed.  But I didn't see his mother walk away.  I only saw her weeping in her seat, a family member comforting her, as we quietly filed out.

Come, Lord Jesus.

2016, year of the Crocodile

2016 was the first year that we had a foster child with us through the whole year.  It doesn't make for much of a timeline that I want to share without giving more details than I'm comfortable with, but there were events and changes nonetheless. 

With our family, Rhinoceros started kindergarten and Crocodile switched daycares to what we call his "preschool," but really he's there 8:30-3ish each day while I work and fit in a little volunteer time.  Dinosaur continues to dote on Crocodile as one of the cutest humans alive.  Crocodile matured to the point that he and Rhinoceros can play more pretend games together.  Crocodile also figured out how to push his foster brothers' buttons and instigates like crazy.  They are all still very loud.

With the status of his case, parental rights were terminated.  Though it's still not in writing at this point because the system has slowed down, we made the decision that we do not plan to adopt him.  So, the wheels are in motion to find him an adoptive home, ideally with his siblings.

With the status of living with his siblings, their first foster home put in notice and they moved to a new home.  Potential for him to join them waxed and waned.  Recently their second foster home put in notice and they will move soon.  It is pre-adoptive and the plan includes Crocodile as well, but as it's less urgent that he move at this point, they will wait and do a transition.  I'm a mix of emotions, as the news is still very new, the move is very fast, and there has not been a successful home yet for his siblings.  At the same time, I do need to accept the reality that this is the plan and he very well could move soon.

We ended the year with intensity.  I'm still exploring what the causes are, but my usually intense emotional state is off the charts for me.  I'm getting some help to move forward on that, which is good.  But it's new and intense.  Crocodile went from being a very bouncy almost-always-happy toddler to a very bouncy sometimes aggressive and angry preschooler.  He is still our dear heart-of-gold Crocodile and we are more than willing to put in the work to help him through his struggles.  But it is intense.  We saw termination of parental rights for the first time and it was heartwrenching.  And the final visit.  Heartwrenching.  Just as I felt I was able to refocus again, to move forward, the news of the second move for his sisters came, and there was a lot of sadness that came with that.  Lots of updates and changes and even some good parts, but a lot of it.  Intense.

Sometimes it's been so much that I haven't known where to start writing about it.  I feel guilty for neglecting friendships.  I worry I've entered a tunnel of foster care and I can't see much else.

But if this is the tunnel I'm walking in, I know I am not alone.  God is guiding me as I grope through the darkness.  B is beside me, loving, working hard for the kids and for us.

At one point this year the caseworker, knowing we did not plan to adopt, projected the many months ahead.  She asked, "He will probably stay with you for quite some time before he moves to his adoptive family, if you are willing.  Is that something you are okay with?"

I couldn't even fathom an answer of no.  Neither could B.  Some decisions are challenging and hard to make.  This path is hard to walk, but at least at this time, the decision to walk it has been crystal clear to us.  Of course we will walk it.

2017 may be just as intense.  We don't know.  But here we go.

Special people

I sing a little song around the house with the names of the kids.  I admit I bring it out often when I'm about to lose it and I need something to get me back to being kind and positive.  We have a few versions:
"I love Dinosaur, I love Rhinoceros, I love Crocodile, I love Daddy B."
"I love Dinosaur, I love Rhinoceros, I love Crocodile, I love Pterodactyl-and-Beetle-and-Caterpillar-and-Cricket-and-Tadpole."
"I love Crocodile, I love his mama, I love his Benny*, I love his sisters."

Lately he's started to request particular versions.  You would think it would always be the mama-Benny-sisters version, but sometimes he requests the one that names foster kids he never met.  Every time he asks, the look he gives me just melts me.  He know they're our "special people" songs.

Whenever my heart aches with emotion when he brings up his mama, his Benny, or his sisters, I sometimes search for words, but at some point I came up with a go-to response that helps me respond right away and helps comfort right away.  "Your _____ is/are so special to you."  Then of course he starts to echo it, and daily he's talking about how each one is so special.

Crocodile was playing with three cars on a track.  "That one has my mama and my Benny and my sisters.  That one has Mommy C and Daddy B.  That one is just me by myself."

Your family may change, little one, and special people may say goodbye, but you won't be just you by yourself.  I won't let that happen.

*His mom's boyfriend, not his real name

Gray Areas of Confidentiality

I could drive myself and my licensing worker crazy with questions about what's okay and not okay for confidentiality and identifying photos, but three and a half years into fostering, we just try to make a reasonable effort, which sometimes means being very cautious and sometimes going with some "good enoughs."  An example of what "good enough" looks like:

Friend at church takes family photo for a hallway that has photos of all the church members (it's a very small church).
Foster parents aren't really thinking about confidentiality because kids are squirmy, I'm not having a good day, and let's just get this done.
Friend says, "Oh no, he held that big cookie up in front of his face."
Foster parents pause and say, "Actually, that's perfect."

So, now we have the cookie picture hanging up in the church hallway.

Miss Carrie's Songs

I always wish I could know the inside of our kids' brains.  This is especially true with our foster children, who have memories we don't know, who are processing their experiences in ways we don't understand.

Crocodile thinks the case aides that supervise visits and have sometimes transported him to visits are very important people.  He often includes them in lists of family members, and when they were transporting, he would always talk about visits as "Miss Carrie coming to pick me up" or "Miss Beth driving me in her car."  We'll turn onto a street and he'll tell me that Miss Carrie drove that way to pick up his sisters.  Kid is three!

But my favorite part is when he says, "Miss Carrie played this song."  He says it most often for the Christian radio station, which we listen to maybe 30% of the time.  Sometimes it's for songs that I know she might have played, as I've asked and she did listen to the same station, but other times it's impossible.  She stopped driving him for visits five months ago, and these are new songs.  There must be something in the music.  He says this several times per week.  He never says it for other stations or music, with one exception.  I've become a huge Hamilton fan and listen to it often (careful to turn down the volume at key parts).  "History Has Its Eyes on You" started up and sure enough: "Miss Carrie played this song!"  Apparently this song, and this one alone, somehow sounds like the Christian radio station.

There will be a home

I say to people, when I explain that we're just fostering, that hopefully if he needs to be adopted, there will be a home for him and his sisters.  And if not, there are many homes for a young child like him with mild issues.

But part of my heart turns to ice.

Who are these people?  They don't know my Crocodile.  Do they know how he used to be scared of water but now he's not?  Do they know how he cowered in the corner that first night?  Do they know how he likes to talk about his mama and about five or six other people and how he is used to the response, "oh yes, she is so special to you."  Will they sense when he needs one-on-one attention, or he will lash out?  Do they know he just can't stop moving until he falls asleep, that's he's not really trying to be defiant?

It sounds like I think no one can be like us.  I know in my mind that is not true.  I know we are not great and wonderful.  I know there are wonderful parents out there.

It has been hard every time to picture them living a different life, away from us and all the things we know for that child.  We write notes, but it's not the same.  We know it won't be the same.

And we know it doesn't have to be.  But of the many things that make my mothering heart churn with the difficulties of foster care, this is one at the top of the list.

I pray and trust that there is so much more than I can imagine.  That God made my heart this way, but that doesn't mean my heart is always right.  He made it to love fiercely so that I could do all I do for these kids.

But His love is much more fierce, His plans much greater.

I have to breathe, bury down what feels wrong as a devoted mother.  This is what we do.  We love and we let go when we need to.

Awkward Moments in Foster Care: Unclear Pronunciation of 3-year-olds

Thanks to therapy, we have people in our home more often, which I think leads to more awkward moments.  This week's:

Crocodile: Daddy give me spankin.
*silence*
Me: What did you say?
Crocodile: He give me spankin.
Me: I don't think... I don't think that's what he means...
Crocodile: He give me spankin.  *holds up play food piece of bacon*
Therapist and Me: He gives you BACON!

And yes, B did give Crocodile a small piece of his bacon this morning.  And now I'm doing my post-game analysis: did I clarify why I was horrified?  Because I wasn't horrified because we spank him but because after signing at least twelve forms that we swear we will not spank I know a looming investigation when I see one.  But I didn't SAY any of that...

Another home

I've had a hard time writing because looking ahead can be painful.  I know I should live in the moment and enjoy Crocodile for who he is, pour myself into providing love and security for him the best I can.  But most of the time I get stuck in the future and clinging to my trust in God to get me unstuck.  It's painful to think of the trial ahead, potentially terminating parental rights, tragically but necessarily.  As he moves to his adoptive home, it's painful to think of saying goodbye to Crocodile, after being Mommy to him for over a year.  It's painful to think of Dinosaur and Rhinoceros saying goodbye, Rhinoceros losing another treasured playmate, and Dinosaur losing the little guy he has adored since the moment he saw him, singing praises of his cuteness.  It's painful to think of the difficult future ahead for Crocodile and his sisters, even with lots of love, because of what they've been through.

Then our agency has been overwhelmed and is begging for foster parents to take on more.  We can't right now.  It has a note of encouragement, that our decision to continue "strictly fostering" for now is a good one, but it's mostly very sad.  Siblings are being separated.  Children are being sent to residential homes for the sole reason that there is not room for them.

Then I got an e-mail.  Someone I know getting back in touch with me to ask about becoming a foster parent.

Hallelujah.

There will be another home.  There need to be more, but it lifted a little of the burden, the guilt.  It set me onward with a purpose, something productive.  It helped that my occasional cries to Facebook about the need for foster parents was not in vain.  I was heard and I could help.  This is the second person I've helped to start a journey in becoming foster parents.

I typed these words: "The need is so great, and while it's challenging, it's something I'm so glad we're doing."  And I meant them.

Awkward Moments in Foster Care: Toys that need explaining

We're a few sessions into therapy for Crocodile.  He's in turbo gear when the therapist is at our house, kind of like he is when a caseworker comes by.  (When he's not asleep, he's usually just in high gear.)  So, he's running here and there and everywhere, playing with everything for two seconds, and he brings over something that makes circles on the microsuede couch.

Of course, that something is a shot glass he pulled from the dish drying rack.

Doesn't matter how moderately you drink or how understanding you think the professional is, that's worth at least a few nervous chuckles.

Picture

I took a picture of Crocodile to send to the caseworker just to document a bump on his head he got at daycare.

He looked up at me and grinned from ear to ear.  I looked back at it, and it is just perfect.  It captures his energy, his joy, his little heart full of love.  It is classic 3-year-old boy, and yet totally uniquely him at the same time.  I want to share it with the world.  I want to shout it from the rooftops.  I want to scream that this is my kid.

And I want to hide from the world when I think of goodbye.

It will probably be the cover of his book when he leaves.

Sometimes when the pictures are so good, they immediately hurt.

Couch time

When Dinosaur stopped napping, I instituted "resting time."  He had to stay in his room an amount of time set by a timer, and as long as he was quiet, all was well.  I would try to time it the same as Rhinoceros's nap and catch a little peace and quiet.  It took some practice, but he got it.  Books on CD were especially helpful.  Rhinoceros was not so into this idea.  We tried, but it never quite had the same success and included some crying and moving gradually into the hallway.  Now Crocodile isn't napping every day either.  But we still all really need a little downtime for me to sit in one place.  Sometimes I can use a show for that, but Crocodile kind of likes to bounce around while watching something, and it's not predictable when he'll lose interest.

I am an introvert.  I love that my schedule provides me with two weekdays with the kids, but I am always drained by 1:00, no matter how the day is going.  I would love for everyone to have "room time," like my mom did as I grew up.  Everyone in their rooms for an hour after lunch, doing whatever.  But I'll tell you what I can't bring myself to do: isolate my foster children.  Cricket was especially triggered by isolation.  Shut her door without you in her room with her, and you just unlocked an hour of awful.  Crocodile does not seem to have quite the same trigger, but he certainly hates being in his room alone and says he's scared.  Rhinoceros has observed this with two kids and joined the bandwagon.  Though maybe I shouldn't be so cynical; he could have legitimate fears as well.  Conclusion: each in own rooms does not work because it sets off a bomb of emotions in each room and I can't deal with them all.

So, I'm trying "couch time" for the summer.  We are all in the living room, each sitting on a couch.  Currently we have two couches and two loveseats, as we bought a new-to-us set, tried to sell the old set, and have been too lazy to do anything about the fact that they didn't sell.  I'm setting a 3-minute timer for everyone to gather whatever they want to play with/read/do during "couch time."  Rhinoceros had a drill-and-design set.  Crocodile had a few books.  I had my laptop.  Then I start a timer for "couch time."  Today we did just 15 minutes.  Crocodile was in a rare mood and cried, but he was on the couch when the timer ended.  Rhinoceros played happily.  I (mostly) sat for fifteen minutes.   I think I can get them to 30 minutes, maybe longer.  I'm thinking of even giving "Help me, Mommy" cards.  They get two cards (maybe one?), and after two times that I help them with something, cards are gone and I am done helping.

I share this because in foster care, sometimes our mom's way or our previous way just won't work with a particular child.  You try something new, and it may not work out, but it's a step.  It also breaks me out of the frustration of my "tried and true" method not working.  Invent, try out, try again.  Because even though Crocodile was crying a bit and not really a "couch time" fan today, I know he felt secure, because I was right across the room with him, doing this together.

Beach time

All of our foster children have had older siblings, and all of them have had neglect and the foster care system impact them more deeply than the little ones in our care.  This isn't say that our little ones haven't experienced loss and fear.  Early trauma and separation are real.  But so far, the older ones have always lost more, feared more.  They remember the violence.  They remember the broken promises.  They remember the times their mom or dad couldn't take care of them and someone else had to.  Sometimes they've told me.  And they are scared for their younger siblings.  They worry about them.

All of that melts away when they're just kids playing on a beach.  A brother and two sisters.  Crocodile is normally very hesitant near the water (pretty much the only time he's hesitant about physical activity), but I don't know if it was the presence of his sisters or what, but he just ran right in.  They splashed him, he splashed them, and they shouted and screamed.  These kids are very, very loud.  I'm so glad it's summer.  They pushed and pulled either other around on an inflatable alligator.  They dumped cups of water on each others' heads.  Even though I described their lives as being different above, they're all three so small.

It's joyful.

It's bittersweet.  This shouldn't be a "bonding time."  This should just be their lives.  I remember thinking the same thing when Cricket's sister came for a sleepover and Cricket chatted incessantly as they went to sleep.  This should just be another Saturday night. 

Thankfully, their separation ended, though adoption is still not final and I am nervous until it is, especially since they are half-siblings, so there are relatives that could separate them.

I pray that the separation ends for Crocodile and his sisters.  There are at least two ways that it could, but they are not guaranteed.

I shouldn't picture the future.  I know I shouldn't.  But in my mind it goes like this: Crocodile moves to one of those next steps with his sisters.  We become open for two kids, a sibling set only.  What if there are sets of three, four, five?  Or lots of babies later?  As much as I wish sometimes we could, we know we aren't the family that can take them, so I know this doesn't solve everything.  But maybe, just maybe, it will work out that the right sibling set at the right time would end up in our home.  And we could keep them together and they would never be separated.

Maybe we could just have beach time, in the middle of foster care, and beyond, like a regular Saturday.