Watch Over Them

For the next few days, we are watching the same two foster kids we had back in the middle of July.  When I had them last, I understood that their foster mom was planning on adopting them.  I guess it didn't work out.

I got a phone call from DCFS Monday morning informing me of the situation: After having the children for six months, the foster family decided that they couldn't take care of them anymore and requested to have them removed and placed with someone else.  Their new foster parents are unable to receive them until this weekend so the State called me to see if my husband and I could watch them between the gap.  The social worker explained with solemnity, "They know you and feel comfortable with your family.  We'd rather have them stay with people they've been with before during this transition than have them adjust to strangers all over again."

I was more than happy to take them in.  They squealed with delight this morning when Micah opened the front door.  He stepped back to catch his balance from the force of the children running into him and hugging him tightly.  He grinned proudly and was glad to see them again.

The foster mom was quiet and stepped back out onto the porch to retrieve two large garbage bags that contained everything the kids owned.  She set their belongings on the couch, returned outside again, and came back in with two car seats.  She paused for a minute and watched the children playing on the floor with my kids.  She called their names to say goodbye but they were already engrossed in imagination and hardly noticed her speaking.  I knew it was the last goodbye and that they would never see her again... but the foster kids didn't realize it.  This was very painful for the foster mom.  In an effort to help, I tapped the kids on the shoulder, "Hey, she wants to say goodbye.  Can you give her a hug?" I nudged the older one and he complied.  The younger one glanced over at his foster mom, gave a half-wave but found the toys more interesting and took off down the hall.  Tears welled up in the foster mom's eyes and I could tell she had a bunch more she was trying desperately to hold back. Embarrassed, she said to me shyly, "They don't understand."  Six months was a long time to grow attached. "I'm so sorry." I said to her.  I didn't know what else to say.  I wrapped my arms around her and hugged her as tight as I could.  "I'm sure this is excruciatingly difficult for you."  She nodded affirmatively.  My heart went out to her.  "I'm so very sorry," I said again.  "Thank you." She whispered sincerely and then turned in silence to make her way out the door.

After she left, I looked across the room at Miriam who had just observed the whole scene.  Tears then began to flow from my eyes too as I pondered on what just happened.  Those children didn't understand that she was not coming back.  What will go through their minds when they finally do realize?  They are so young now.  At what point do they grow weary of attaching and detaching that they begin to numb themselves to the pain?  Will they learn to keep relationships at a distance so they don't have to get hurt again?  Will they begin to feel as if something is fundamentally wrong with them?  Will they blame themselves as the reason certain homes didn't keep them?

I wish our home was ready so I could be their new foster mom.  I hope they don't have to go through a removal again.  I hope this next place can be a permanent one for them.  Tonight before bed, I read stories in an effort to help them wind down.  (I miss the age that my children used to cuddle next to my side as I read them picture books. So this was a treat for me.)  The youngest boy fell asleep in my lap.  I turned him around so he could wrap himself around me and rest his head on my shoulder.  I wondered how often he had been held or cradled in his life.  I didn't want to let go of him so I took him outside and carried him back and forth on the porch in the cool summer night air under the glitter of the stars.  He sunk deep in my arms and relaxed completely in peaceful sleep.  I prayed silently for him.  "Bless this perfectly innocent child.  Bless him to know that he is loved.  Bless him to learn of his worth.  Dear Father, please watch over this sweet, sweet boy."  I took him back into the house, carefully placed him in his bed and wondered about his future.

These experiences with fostering will tug and tear at my heart in ways I can't imagine.  I pray I will be strong through it all.
-Alicia