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.

Blergh.

I am mired in foster care stress and I should take care of myself by:
1) praying
2) calling my foster mom friend
3) writing blog posts (or even non-blog journal entries) to get my thoughts out

Instead, I just wasted time on the internet and now I need to go do the dishes.

Posting this to make myself accountable to do better tomorrow.

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.

How we feel about court

On my way out of court the other day, I ran into an acquaintance from church.  Neither of us knew why the other was there.  After saying hi and having a pause of not being sure what to say next, he said, "Sucky place, isn't it?"

Pretty much.

Things are happening in Crocodile's case as they should, but it still sucks.

To the dads.

To the birth dads.
I haven't known you very well.
You were involved but my time with the case was short.
You were named but not working a plan.
You were working a plan but only for a short time.
You were in prison.
Being a father means action and acts of love.
But fathers are human.  And they love and think about their children even if they weren't there for them.
I don't feel close to you.  I haven't really worked alongside you as a foster parent so far.  But I'm not going to rant smugly about you.  I'm not going to roll my eyes.  I know I don't really know your hearts.  And I know you have given my foster children part of who they are.  A smile.  A strong throwing arm.  Curly hair.  And they are such precious little people.

To the foster dads.
You give children memories of men who love and men who can be depended on.
Some of you are just kid people and soft-hearted.  Your eyes light up and you pour your hearts into parenting.  You know how to brighten a child's day, and you know when to shed tears with them.
Some of you are not always like the above, but you are steady and sure.  You are there for them, when they arrive cowering and scared, when they just won't fall asleep, when they destroy something in the house again.  You are patient.  You are human and want to yell sometimes, but you are in control, because you know you need to be.  You feel the difficulties of foster care, but you keep doing it, because you know it is right.
You are obedient.
You stay sane when the waiting is long and unbearable.
If you are the steady and sure kind (B), you are what keeps the soft-hearted wife (me) going when her heart threatens to collapse from the weight of foster care.  I couldn't do it without you.  We are a good, essential balance.

To my dad.
You taught me what it's like to follow God's call.  Both you and I thought we might be missionaries.  We thought we might use our gifts in another country, serving God there.  God told you and God told me to stay here and serve in a different way.  For you, it was to be a light in your town as a family doctor.  To have integrity, honesty, and care about people.  For me, among other things, it was to be a foster parent.  I heard your story of making that decision to stay and serve near home, and it rooted in my heart.

Happy Father's Day, dads.

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.