Three years ago today

Three years ago today, I took a day off to catch up on essay grading. It was a random Thursday to pick, but I soon learned that it wasn't so random; there was definitely a reason I was home that day. That morning, I got a call from the Foster Care Placement Coordinator about a two-year-old boy who needed a home--maybe a forever home. She asked if I was interested and told me that he would need to be picked up that day so he wouldn't exceed his 24-hour shelter placement. With shaking hands and a shaking heart, I installed the car seat and gathered a few toys to entertain him during the trip Urgent Care I was told he would need. I drove to Hayward with the directions in my hand to pick up that boy who would forever change me.

I don't think about Jabbarri every day anymore, but, every once in a while, I miss him in a way that aches. I wonder if he's safe and loved. I wonder if his kindergarten teacher is kind (or if he went to kindergarten this year).  I wonder about his language development and his emotional security. I wonder.

That little boy with the big, smiling eyes and infectious laugh made me a mother. He has part of my heart--forever.

Writing about hair

We're reading House on Mango Street in class, and I asked my students to write vignettes about hair, considering Esperanza's description of her mom's hair.  Esperanza (the protagonist of the novel) says her mom's hair smells like warm bread, and she speaks of the simple comfort her mom's hair offers. I challenged my kids to write a vignette about hair (theirs, a family member's, a friend's, or hair in general) and make it meaningful. After they got over their "You're really asking us to write about hair?"and "I have no idea what I'm going to write about!" grumbles, their pencils starting moving frantically.

Their vignettes floored me. A quiet boy in the back wrote about how his hair represents his desire to join the Army and how it makes his mom so angry. He thinks the shorter his hair is the better. I had a girl write about her long, brown locks that she always wanted to be blonde. She explained how coming to terms with her hair helped her come to terms with herself. The girl in the front row wrote about her grandma's hair that fell out during chemo. Her grandma's clumps of hair were a metaphor for her strength.

I wrote my own, and I shared it with them as I introduced the assignment:

            Your two-year old locks, limited though they were, caused me so much strife. From the moment we met, I was making a plan for dealing with your hair. As I held tight to your chubby fingers on the way from the shelter to the car, I wondered if I should lay a blanket on your carseat to prevent the spread of the lice that were finding their home in your tiny black curls. I wanted to love you right then, but your hair was getting in the way.

            You rested your head against my chest while we read a bedtime story, and I thought about your hair. I longed to think about caring for you, loving you, and teaching you, but your hair and the lice clinging to your scalp consumed my thoughts and emotions.

            The very next morning, we shaved it off. I wasn’t going to let something so small as hair get in the way of my mighty love for you. My momma’s heart prevailed over your curls. I was conqueror.

                                                                                    -Sherry McGowan, 2010

Dear Jabbarri,

You're three today! I love three. It's a time when you are discovering your voice, the world, and who you are. I wish I could be there with you during this very special year. 

If you ever feel unloved, you can know that, without a doubt, I love you very much. I wish I could tell you that, but I hope you will remember. Maybe you won't remember my name (which sounded more like "EEEE" when you said it, anyway). Maybe you won't remember our fun times. Those things don't matter, though, little guy. I just want you to remember that, while you lived here, you were loved wholly.

Have fun celebrating. I hope you get some special treats!

Love,

Sherry

A mama or a child?

May I tell you her story?

She was born into Chaos and Instability. Her many siblings were "taken away" when she was only a baby.

Her story was a little different from theirs, though. Although she lived in that same filthy apartment where the children were severely neglected and where they cooked on a propane camp stove (because there was no electricity), her dad (different from each of their dads) came from a "good family." She had an escape called Grandma's House. When Child Protective Services came to do their thing with her siblings, she was visiting Grandma. It took a little longer for her to be removed from the home. Her story was to be different.

Her aunt had a family of her own.  This home was filled with Laughter, Activity, and Love. Drugs, roaches, and poverty were not welcomed in this home. The little girl's aunt knew that, because they were family, she had to take her into this very different home of hers. It was duty. It was required of her. 

So she took her in. She gave her all she needed, but she did it out of duty. She did what she must.

The girl grew into adolescence. Although she had the body of a woman, her soul was still that of the neglected, unloved little girl. She found "love" with her boyfriend and soon learned that a little life was growing in her womb. 

She can't figure out if this life is a catastrophe or a glimmer of hope.

It is a life that gave her a second chance. A life that she swore she wouldn't screw up. A life that she wouldn't allow to be like hers.

But she just doesn't know how. 

Merry Christmas, Baby

Dear Jabbarri,

I miss you more now than I did the first few days after you left. We were all looking forward to sharing Christmas with a little one. The quietness of my house this morning made me wonder about you, again.

Although I'm sad I can't be with you, I hope your mommy cherishes the moments on Christmas morning when you're giggling from excitement. I know it's probably a little chaotic with all of your siblings in one room opening gifts, but that's part of the fun. I wish I could be there to see it! 

Here's to a Christmas with cars and soccer balls under the tree! May your bright eyes be greeted with wonderful surprises. I hope you get lots of hugs and cuddles on Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Baby.

I love you,

Sherry

Seasons

J went home to his mom last night.

On the way back from dropping him off, I drove straight to my mom's without even realizing what I was doing. I guess that's the way home works.

I constantly feel like I'm forgetting something, and then I realize that I'm just used to having him around. It's, of course, a transition back into "just me." It was all so abrupt, and it's happening so much sooner than any of us expected.

I'm still working on finding all the Cheerios in the backseat.

It's all about the money

When I explain my reasons for doing foster care, the most common response is, "That's great. So many people just do it for the money, so I'm glad you're actually doing it for good reasons" I was reading a message board where some people were saying that it's crazy that foster parents even get paid. They should just do it because they want to. Did you know that foster parents have to prove financial responsibility and stability before they will be considered as foster parents? If we "need" the money, we won't be certified. Also, all purchases and expenses must be documented.

I have spent an incredible amount of money on foster care, and I have gotten nowhere near breaking even. It cost me hundreds of dollars to prepare my home for certification, to take classes, to get fingerprints, etc. Then, when a child comes, he comes with what he has with him, which is often nearly nothing. I have to buy the diapers, the pajamas, the cups, the clothes, the toys--everything he needs daily. In my case, I work full time, which means paying for daycare. Whoah. I do receive a stipend, but it comes about $200 short of paying for the childcare costs (and my daycare is definitely not the most expensive one around). You get the idea. The money is one of the few things that could keep me away from caring for these kids because my finances are tight to begin with.

If there are truly foster parents who are "doing it for the money," they must be really stupid. Really stupid. If a foster parent "needs money" she should become a licensed daycare provider because she could make way more money and then send the kids home at six. Also, she has to fill out many identical forms (since we're both licensed by Community Care Licensing), so she could just copy them.

Also, imagine the heartbreak she could avoid.

Are you my mother?

Our parenting styles are different. Our ideals are different. Our worlds are different.

I think my way is better, and I'm sure she thinks she's doing just fine. She has the trump card, though. She is his mother. I am just the stand-in caregiver.

He wants his mama and his mama wants him. I hope, though, that she wants him as badly as I do.

When I come home and he chooses me instead of the other stand-in caregiver...when he cries when I go...when he chooses me to kiss his owies...I know that I'm a little more than a stand-in caregiver. There's a little bit of "mama" in me, too.

He must be so confused. I sure am.

Thanks, Kimmy, for capturing the cutest pics of the boy.

Hurting

I chose this, I wanted this, and I love it. That doesn't mean my heart isn't breaking several times a day.

Each afternoon, he looks around my house, shrugging his shoulders, and saying, "Mommy?" Every time, it makes my eyes get misty because I want to tell him that he'll see her soon, but I really can't promise that. He misses her so much. Each night, he wakes up many times screaming "No! No! No!," arching his back, and kicking the wall. Nothing I say can console him, so, in sheer exhaustion, I just lay on his floor and cry. When the doctor ignores my concerns and writes me off as overly concerned and naive, I feel stupid and helpless, knowing that I have the answer to the problem, but he's not hearing me. I'm still waiting to hear any news about this child's fate, and I'm at the mercy of the county. I just wait and I cry because I have no idea what's coming tomorrow.

At the same time, I love him more than I ever could have anticipated. I can't imagine my life before him or after him. This is, no doubt, the most meaningful and important thing I've ever done.

All I can do is hope that, one night, he will just sleep. My body and soul need rest.

Grandma's

I think Jabbarri would rather live at Grandma's. Her toys are way cooler. She has knee pads.

The details (in case you want them)

I was shaking from the moment I got the call to the moment he fell asleep. 

I stayed home on Thursday to grade essays, having no idea that the purpose for my day off was far greater. I got a call Thursday morning saying that there was a possible placement for me, but they would need to hear back very soon or it would be too late. They told me it probably wasn’t going to work because they knew I wouldn’t get the message until after school. I called back, explained that I was actually off today, and said, “yes." Immediately my duties ensued.

I put the car seat in the car and set out to pick this two-year old stranger up at the shelter, not sure if he would even want to go with me. I was asked, "Are you the foster mom?" by many different people, and I realized that the correct answer was, "Yes." They warned me that he would probably fight it and scream on the way out, but he walked out happily holding my hand and saying, “car?” 

We had to head straight to Urgent Care for some medical treatment. It was nerve-racking to entertain this little guy for several hours, alone, in a hospital waiting room. (I did come prepared with a bag of tricks.) It was even more nerve-racking to hear him scream while they tried to get his vitals. In the end, he climbed up into my lap and was ready to head home. 

I sent my mom to get him some clothes and diapers at Target. I don't know what I would have done without her as I cried, "What was I thinking? Can I do this?" and she said, "Did you see how sweet he is?" We played, colored, ate, and talked, and he went to bed very quickly and without a fight. After he fell asleep, I seemed to snap out of the Twilight Zone.

His giggle, his smiling eyes, and his shrugging shoulders are three of my new favorite parts of life.  

A new little guy has joined my family and stolen my heart. He's not so sure about camera lights flashing in his face. I'll keep you updated.

A mother's heart

I have little reminders of Samantha around my house. From the burp cloth I found under the quilt on my bed to the bottles in the dishwasher to the pack 'n play folded up in my bedroom to the formula bottle in my recycling bin, it is clear that she was here. 

Today is the first day I've been home after school this week. I could spend some time getting my life organized again, but part of me is sad to see the reminders go away. 

The first night, when I went to bed, since I had been staring at her little face all weekend, her image seemed burned into the back of my eyelids. There she was. Today, I can't picture her.

I remember well, however, the feeling of helplessness as I passed her back. I think that's important. I don't want to forget how much I want good things for her. 

My wish for you

As I rocked you to sleep for one last time tonight, I realized that I don't know your last name. I don't even know where you live. I don't know how old your mom is or what she looks like.

I do know that, a few minutes before I knew I would have to pass you back to your foster mom, I was compelled to pray for the first time in over a year. It seemed like the only logical gift I could send. I squeezed you a little tighter as the tears flowed and I prayed for your biological mom. I prayed that she would protect you and that her desire to love you would be matched by her ability to care for you. I prayed that you would be safe and that you would know how loved you are. I prayed that, somehow, the intense love I have for you marked your little life. 

In your first month, you were loved intensely. You were loved by your foster mom who wanted you so badly, you were loved by me for a short weekend--even though I knew I would have to pass you back on Sunday evening, and you were loved by your mommy who wants, so badly, to prove her love for you.

My hope for you, precious little girl, is that the rest of your life will also be marked by love. 

What I'm seeing:

Sweet little fingers hanging on the collar of my t-shirt.

What I'm hearing:

Baby grunts.

What I'm smelling:

The familiar sent of baby shampoo.

What I'm feeling:

Home.

I got a call to do respite care for a one-month old girl next weekend. I'm so looking forward to loving on her (and taking a break from sleeping) for the weekend. 

Saying "no" to offering her protection

Each time I say "no" to a placement, I feel like I'm rejecting a child (or teenager). I hope somebody says "yes" to the 12 year-old girl who needs a forever home.

Un-preparing

With shaking hands and blurry eyes, I put away most of the stuff in the "baby's room."  The baby sling and the receiving blankets my mom made for me hurt the most. They were to become a part of my day, as I learned to fulfill my new role as "mom." Then, I put the diapers in the box and that made me sad, too. 

I tried to take the children's books off the shelf and move them to the "nephew closet" downstairs, but I just couldn't. If you come and stay in the guest room, you can read yourself to sleep with a story. I'm not moving them.

Not quite as I'd planned

I registered the warranty on my car seat in June. Since then, I've received canisters of formula, a subscription to American Baby, discounts to Gymboree, Safety First catalogs, and baby food coupons. All unsolicited. 

My mailbox looks like that of a new mother. I have a drawer in my kitchen filled with BPA-free sippy cups, binkies, and bottles. A basket of cloth diapers and bamboo wipes sits beside the bookshelf upstairs.  The "guest" room looks like a nursery. 

My arms are empty. 

Should I pack it all up?