When we were dealing with infertility, people often told me to "just relax". What they didn't know is that I could have relaxed until I completely lost all muscle tone in my body and it would not have mattered.  We had diagnosed reasons that we could not conceive.  Unless God chose to work a miracle of healing we were not going to have a baby.  So when people said that, it just made me feel misunderstood and so very alone.  

I guess in a way He did work a miracle.  He changed our hearts and opened them to the fatherless children He needed us to care for.  

Now people say another phrase to me all the time.  They say, "it's just going to be so hard on you when _________ goes". Well, true, but what good does it do for us to dwell on that now?  How does that help me in being the foster mom that God has called me to be? Once again, it sometimes leaves me feeling misunderstood and alone.  

This time next week my family will be surrounded by hundreds of other families living in the trenches of foster care.  There will be fun and snacks and heat.  My kids are about to bust to pack up for camp.  All I can think about is that for a few days no one is going to point out how hard it will be when children leave. They are going to give knowing glances and laugh at the beautiful children that we all have "for now".  They are going to love all my children as if they were aunts or uncles.  And at some point we will all agree that we live a crazy life, but we wouldn't trade it for anything.  

Dangerous

A long time ago when I first started being the foster mom, I was better at remembering that this child has a family (not my family).  I was better at thinking of my core family as a unique unit separate from the whole of the family that included foster little.  It was a dance, but I had a mental separation that kept me in my foster mom role.

It wasn't that I didn't love, I did.  It wasn't that I didn't nurture, I did.  I advocated, loved, nurtured, investigated needs, fulfilled needs, loved, cared, and was the everyday mom.    But I kept a wall around the forever part of my heart.  It was there to protect me.  I felt safe with that wall in place. Like I would be able to survive being a foster parent.

Lately though I feel like someone handed the little one a pick ax or crow bar or sledge hammer and told him to whack away at my wall.  I can't find it anymore.  Forever, for now, it's all mixed up in my heart. Little one has snuck in and made a place in the forever part of my heart.  

Maybe it was the middle of the night stuff.  Maybe it was the passage of time.  Maybe it was watching the baby who came to me turn into a happy, healthy toddler.  Maybe it was when the talking started, and I became "Momma".  Maybe it was when the snuggles into my neck started, or the sloppy toddler kisses.  Maybe it was when the running hug began at daycare pick up time.  Maybe it was the soft dinner time prayers offered by a toddler again years after my forever kids left toddlerhood.  But somewhere around the 12 month or 15 month or 18 month mark my wall disappeared.  

It's gone. 
 (maybe it really always was, and I was kidding myself) 

This is a dangerous love.

The double life of a foster parent

Some days being a foster parent is about fielding questions for social workers, answering text messages, paperwork, packing the visit bag, preparing the child for a visit, advocating for the child's needs, logging Meds, and praying you are making a difference in a broken system.   

Other days foster care is about watching the child who was afraid of water run in the sprinkler.  Or the child who didn't know how to play with toys tell you an elaborate story of make believe.  Or watching the child  who was afraid of any sudden movement, being tossed in the air by his foster father with his head thrown back in a fit of laughter.  Or realizing the child who had little language is pretending to read his favorite storybook with expression.  

This is the hardest thing we have ever done (and we've done hard things). But I wouldn't trade the hard because then I would have to give up the amazingly wonderful.  

I have a ton of things I need to accomplish today, but I'm not getting much done because I can tell I need to write.  I am mentally writing while I'm trying to do laundry and clean out kid closets for the change of seasons.  It's not working, so I'm taking a few minutes to write in the hopes of a more productive afternoon.  

I'm tired.  This month has been one of those where you just keep waiting for the next shoe to fall.  Not the other shoe, because several shoes have already fallen.  Just the next shoe.

In the midst of this month, I have greatly desired to know what our family will look like this time next year.  I'm longing for some stability in the midst of so much upheaval, uncertainty, and change.  (I can only imagine how the children caught in foster care limbo must feel.)  

I have been through these phases during our time as foster parents already.  Times when I just want to know where in the world we are headed.  Times when I want to prepare my heart for the future.  Times when I let the uncertainty of this life grow into fear and heartache.  When I let the fear grow, I become irritable and easily frustrated with normal life with young children.  It's not pretty, and I know better.  I have got to let go of my desire to control this life (again, for the umpteenth time). If I don't, my children are going to be wearing sweaters in July because I'm never going to get these clothes changed out.

"Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble." Matthew 6:34.

You might be a foster mom if . . .

You might be a foster mom if you go shopping for the Easter baskets and you make sure everything is even in all baskets just as you would if you had the promise of forever with all your children.  Taking time to make age appropriate choices with everyone's tastes in mind.  Enjoying day dreaming about the excitement as the kids discover the treats that you picked out.  Sometimes getting to be the mom is really fun.

 And then the sadness as you remember that there is another who either cannot, will not, or is currently unable to participate in these joyful times as a mother. You wish she was in a place to hear those squeals on Sunday morning.   And in your own joy as a mom you grieve with her, and hope one day a healthy relationship can exist.  

Field trip and a little education (or I'm proud I didn't hurt a 7 year old)

Today I had the pleasure of going on a field trip with my middle guy.  He's mine forever so I am allowed to tell stories about him without breaking foster care rules.

My son is hispanic with shiny dark brown hair, gorgeous skin, and almond shaped eyes.  He's full of personality and kids are drawn to him.  As we toured the zoo together it was obvious lots of kids know him.  We gathered back with his class for a picnic lunch near the end of the trip.  I was helping make sure all lunches were passed out, hands sanitized, etc. About that time, my son called me "mom" because he needed help.  When I came to help him, one of the little girls took notice.  We had the following conversation in front of my son's class and several parents.  

Little girl: Are you his mom?
Me:  Yes. (notice I do not offer more information)
Another little boy:  "my son" is adopted.
Little girl to me: is he adopted?
Me to my son: are you adopted? (I gave him the control here so I could read his comfort level)
My son: yes! (completely confident, no hesitation)
Little girl:  oh so that's why you don't look alike.
Me: that's right, but I'm still his mom.  I still do all the mom stuff even though we don't look alike (as I'm peeling his orange).
Little girl: so where is is REAL mom.
Me:  I'm right here, I am his real mom.
Little girl: no I mean who gave "my son" away. 
Me (fully aware that every child and adult present is waiting for my answer): no one gave "my son" away. 
My son: I've got two moms! One in "place where he was born" and one right there! (said so proudly and with great love for both of us)
A few kids did try to argue the point, but I assured them that he does in fact have two mothers.

Another mom later told me she thought I handled their questions well.  I was just glad that I reigned in mama bear when sweet precious child asked who gave my son away.  But it got me thinking.  I have had many conversations about adoption with my children.  We pray for all birth families represented in this house every night at bedtime.  This is our normal, and we have done our best to prepare our kids for the curiosity of this world.  They typically handle themselves very well in these situations.  I was glad to hear my guy share a tiny bit of his story with confidence, love, and pride.  

**Here's my quick request for families who are not built by adoption.  When your children ask you questions about how my family is built can you please not use the words "real mom" or "give away".  I am real.  My son's birth mother is real.  No one is fake ( the opposite of real).  He has a first mom, a biological mom, a tummy mom, a birth mom - any of those names will do.  He also has me.  He has two REAL moms.  No one gave my son away.  He needed a family due to difficult circumstances in his birth family.  Thanks.  That would help us adoptive moms out a bunch.  

Eleven years

I'm a date person.  I can tell you the date of significant events in my life.  For instance, I know the date of my senior prom.  Wish I had those brain cells for something a bit more current.  

Because of this tendency to remember dates, I will sometimes write a date and feel like it looks familiar.  Last week, I realized that it has been eleven years since we got the first indication that we were not on the easy path to parenthood.  Eleven years.  I can see things so much more clearly now when I look over my shoulder back over those years.  It reminds me that one day it will be eleven years from today.  I will be able to see a more complete picture of today.

So if I could tell my eleven years younger self a couple things I think it would go something like this.

1.  One day you will thank God for your inability to build your family like you planned. I promise.  That sounds crazy now, but it will happen.

2.  Right now you cannot imagine loving a child you did not give birth to, but one day you will find out that you are capable of loving lots of kiddos.

3.  God is not punishing you.  He loves you, but He doesn't love just you.  Giving you what you want right now would leave some kiddos without the mom that He prepared for them.  They are the children of your heart.  They need you more than you need to be pregnant.

4.  One day it will mean more to you that others see your Father in your journey than any dream you ever had.

5.  Most of the kiddos in your home in 11 years will not have blue eyes.  I understand that you and your husband both have blue eyes and therefore so should your children.  Just trust me on this.

6.  Infertility will teach you that you are not in control.  You're going to need that lesson in order to trust God with your family, your children, and your future.  It will make you a better mom than you would have been without infertility.

7.  That step you cried on the other night when you just didn't understand how and why this was all happening.  One day you will have a picture of you and your children together in that same spot.  It will be a precious reminder that God is faithful.  

Wonder what  I will want to tell myself eleven years from now . . .