"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.