Court

The first time I had to appear in court to advocate for a client I was terrified. My voice shook. My legs were shaking so hard that my colleague later said she could see my skirt trembling. My palms were sweaty. I couldn't catch my breath.

Since then I've appeared in court too many times to count. I actually enjoy testifying. I like being able to present a parent or child in a positive light. It's invigorating to give someone a voice that has been knocked down repeatedly. To have your client hug you and cry happy tears when their case is dismissed based on your testimony. It's rewarding.

But there's also the days in court that aren't so great. The days when you wish you could melt into the wooden bench you're sitting on. The cases you have to present when your testimony creates a negative result for parents or children you are supposed to be advocating for. And there's that door. The big, dark door in the corner of the courtroom that no one notices. No one mentions it. No one looks at it. No one knows why it's there. Until that day. That day it opens. And you sit, wishing to melt into the bench, as you watch the child you've been advocating for walk through it. Only they're not really walking. More like shuffling. The silence of the room is overtaken by the sound of the metal shackles around this child's ankles. You can't help but stare at the stripes. Those wide black and white stripes on the oversized pants and shirt that swallow that child. Sometimes the oversized clothes are orange, or red, or brown. But they all mean the same thing. That child wearing those clothes pulls on your heartstrings because you fought so hard to keep them at home. That child that lied to you, manipulated you, and broke your heart. But not on purpose. How could that child know better? After the life that was handed to to them, how can they know better? They've been taught to lie, steal, and cheat to survive. All the sudden that child makes eye contact with you. And then you see it. The quick wave of that small hand. The hands that are wrapped in heavy, metal bracelets.

Appearing in court is something I've become accustomed to for my job. It's a totally different story as a foster parent. You never know what to expect on this side. This week, I appeared in court for my twins. I thought I was going to sit in the back of the room, keep the girls quiet, and leave the court house child-less. That didn't happen. I won't reveal too many details. But I will tell you I felt verbally attacked, confused, frustrated, angry, and full of joy. All at the same time. I won't lie--at one point I was in an elevator with one baby in my arms, one baby in the stroller, their case manager apologizing all over me for the things I had to witness, and her supervisor wrapping her arm around me while tears poured down my cheeks. I left the court house with my girls. That's all that mattered in the end. I don't know how much longer I will have them. But I have them.

The hardest part of fostering is the unknown. Not knowing when you may get that phone call that your children are moving to a family member or to their birth parent's home. Not knowing if the bags you packed will need to be unpacked due to unforeseen circumstances. But for now, I know I still have my little family. And that's all I need.