Our foster son moved to Tennessee with his grandma a couple of weeks ago.  So we are back to five now.  I think we're planning to take a break from fostering for a while.  This was a rough change for the whole family.  So, anyway, here is part of the letter I wrote to the foster care office to protest the way that the whole situation was handled.  It's long and a little boring, so feel free to skip this post and wait for the next one.  :-)

I found out there was a court hearing the day of the court hearing at 11:00 am.  So I rushed and made it to court by 1:30 pm, and at 4:10 pm, without ever actually walking into the court room, I was told by the social worker that a decision had been made.  Our foster son was going home with his bio Dad and his paternal grandmother that night and I had to have him at the foster care office by 5:30 pm—and I was still at the courthouse. 

By the time I left the courthouse and got home it was 4:30 so we had about 45 minutes to pack and say goodbye.  We put the whole family to work finding toys and blankets and clothes and shoes, but there wasn’t time to thoroughly search through the house to be sure nothing was missed.  There wasn’t time to wash the clothes he had worn for the last few days, so I sent him with a bag of dirty clothes.  There wasn’t time to go out and buy appropriate bags for his things, so he ended up with a hodgepodge of backpacks and plastic bags.  There wasn’t even time to eat dinner one last time with him, so we had to send him with a micro waved quesadilla so he wasn’t starving.  And, most frustratingly there wasn’t any time to prepare him or my own five young children for this drastic change in their lives. 

I would have loved to at least have one night to spend preparing our foster son to leave the only family he had known for months; preparing him to move across the country with a dad and grandma he had only met once.  I would have liked to hold him on my lap for a talk with him about what an exciting change this was and how much he was going to love living with Grandma.  It would have been so much better and less traumatic for him had I had a couple of hours to contain my own emotions before having to explain this to him.  But, I had no time.  So, I was crying as I tried to explain what was happening and sobbing as I packed up all of his things and drove to the office because I hadn't had any time to adjust to the change myself. 

I would have liked to have time to print some pictures of our foster son with my family for him to take with him.  I would have liked to buy him a goodbye gift of a favorite toy to take with him.  I would have loved to have my kids write him a note about how much they loved him so that he might not feel so lost and scared at this big change. But there just wasn’t time for any of that.  I didn’t even have time to write out his schedule and a list of his favorite foods, or to tell grandma how he liked to be put to bed at night.  These are all things that we do when a foster child leaves our home to try and help ease the transition for the child as well as our family--but there just wasn’t any time.

So, at 5:30 pm after a traumatic and exhausting hour for both my foster son and I, we show up at the office with him, his micro waved dinner, his bag full of dirty clothes, his odd assortment of bags and plastic bags, and as much of his stuff as we could locate on short notice.  Unfortunately, the office was already closed because of the lateness of the hour, so I was forced to hand this scared, vulnerable child off to virtual strangers in a dark parking lot.  There was no place to go and sit with dad and grandma and let him get used to them again.  We just passed him and his possessions from one car to the next and he drove away.

What an absolutely absurd way to move a child from one home to another.  Someone should have stood up for the rights of the child in this situation.  Our foster son should have had the right to at least one more visit before moving across the country with his dad and grandma—one chance to get to know them as his future care providers.  He should have had the right to some time to say goodbye to friends in his preschool and at church.  He should have had the right to spend some time saying goodbye to his foster family—the only family he had known for months.  He should have had the right to be transitioned in a lighted room with time to see who he was going with and understand what was happening. 

And, as a foster family who had loved and cared for and been advocates for this traumatized child, we should have had the right to some time to say goodbye to the child we loved like family.

I am so far behind in my blogging that if I tried to catch up on all the events and pictures I’ve missed, I know I would get bogged down and just never blog again.  So, I’ve decided that I will just fast forward through these last eight months as though they never happened—although I can assure you that they did—and start fresh with this week.  If you are confused (that is if there is actually anyone reading this) and you need clarification or catching up on something, just leave me a comment J

So, it is late.  Way too late.  And, I should be sleeping.  But, I spent most of the evening fighting with my husband—my stove is broken and has been for a month, and he keeps saying he’ll fix it, but hasn’t yet.  (He’s not handy, I know he’s not handy and I love him anyway, but I still keep expecting him to magically become handy).  The stove story is a saga for another post, or most likely just best forgotten.  Anyway, it has been my experience that fighting with one’s husband is not conducive to quickly dozing off (although, perversely fighting doesn’t seem to have the same effect on my husband who is blissfully snoring away right now).  So, I was lying in bed thinking and contemplating all things important as well as all things irrelevant and odd and I thought maybe it would help to just put some things down on paper (or screen as the case may be).  Just be forewarned . . . I’m feeling tired and random.

We have a new foster child.  He’s a three-year-old little boy; in fact, he is one week and four days older than Jeffrey.  We’ve wanted to try doing foster care again for a while, and we are really having a great time with our new little guy.  However, I have found that having one more child has really added a new level of insanity to our lives.  We now have six kids under the age of nine—and three of them are exactly the same size and almost the same age.  It is really pretty hilarious whenever we try to take the whole crew anywhere.  You though it was funny before?  You should see us now. J

So, I have to ask myself this question . . . what is wrong with me??  Why do I have this compunction to keep bringing more children into our lives (because, let’s face it, Jerry is a great sport about it, but you know he’s not out there signing us up for this!).   I have a confession to make . . . sometimes I watch moms that just have one or two kids and it just looks so much easier.  They have enough hands.  They have enough laps for everyone to sit on etc. etc. etc.  So, it’s not like I’m blind to the fact that life is harder with six children than it is with just a couple.  But, still I keep collecting kiddoes.  Maybe I just like things a little crazy and busy and noisy (oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe the noise!!!).  I think that might be part of it . . . although a lot of the time the crazy, busy, noisiness absolutely drives me up the wall.   

But, in the midst of all this rushing around and feeding children and changing diapers and cleaning and cleaning some more and feeding more children and feeling like a complete loony toon, there are moments of absolute perfection.  That blissful five minutes when all six kids are playing a game together and being so sweet I just want to ignore the mountain of dishes and watch them play.  Or the first time one of them sees a brother or sister crying and rushes in to help them feel better.   

Every day there are moments when I look at one of my children sitting a certain way or saying a certain thing or looking just so perfect and precious and it’s almost like time stands still for just that one second and my heart fills up and I love that child so much that my I feel a physical ache in my chest.  In that moment I know that it is all worth it.  Whatever craziness may come . . . the early gray hairs, the messy house, the noise, the skeptical looks from observers, the frustrations . . . it’s all worth it for these absolutely perfect little munchkins that can make my heart melt with just a little pat on my cheek or a funny look or a word of wisdom spoken with a lisp.  

That is until they start beating each other up over a favorite toy or all six start screaming at the top of their lungs and racing through the house toppling things and people over as they go.  Then I start looking for the nearest traveling circus we could join, because we are just a complete freak show . . . on second thought, maybe I’ll just send the kids . . . then I could finally have some peace and quiet.  On third thought (as I glance into my kitchen with the still not-functioning, torn-apart stove) maybe that circus needs a new handy man too.  I have one I’d like to trade in for a new model. (hee, hee, hee)