The Red Book

When I was preparing for the girls to move to their family member's home, I had to organize a notebook. A notebook of all their personal details. Doctor visits, prescription medications, TARC evaluations, schedules, and anything else I have documented about them while they've lived in my home. Both girls have books. They are referred to as Red Books. They get their descriptive title from their color.

While going through all their paperwork, the book begins to take on it's own life. It reminds me of one of those flip books you make as a kid. As you flip through the drawings the book comes to life. As you flip through the pages of a Red Book, a child's life flashes before your eyes.

So what would you see in the twins' Red Books? Here's a quick peek:
Doctor office visits: 27
Prescription medications: 39
ER visits: 2
Blood Lab Visits: 7
Specialty Doctor Visits: 1
TARC sessions: 11
Court dates: 3
Case meetings: 4
I also have more than 250 pictures of each of the girls for their family to keep. I've documented most of their life in pictures so their family doesn't feel left out of their childhood.

When I look through their Red Books I see all the heartaches we've had. The constant illness we always fight and the court and meetings I've endured. But I also see the exciting days we've shared. And the people that have loved on my girls with me.

I see all those doctor visits, hospital visits, and lab visits. And I see our pediatrician and nurse that have become friends. That call me just to check on the girls when we haven't been to the office in a few weeks. That pretend they're going to help me hide the girls so they can't leave my home. That greet us at the door when we arrive for appointments and take a carrier from me because I probably look like I'm about to pass out. I also see the head nurse at the ER that recognizes our names because we've spent so much time there and in the lab department. That's the nurse that comes to find me when she sees we've checked in, just to see the girls and say Hi to me. And bumps us up on the list of patients so we don't have to wait so long. I also see our TARC team. The ladies that come to my home and always tell me I'm a good mom. The therapists that show me new ways of helping the girls develop those pesky large motor skills. Our Sabra. She's our number one TARC friend. I can never say enough good things about her. If you ever receive services from TARC, make sure you ask for Sabra!

For a very long time their Red Books would show the girls' deficits. Their delays in development. Their health issues. Their lack of weight gain and growth. And the long road they seemed to have ahead of them when they first moved into my home. And now, now their books reflect all our exciting changes. When it seemed they would never simply roll over. Or swallow without choking. I've learned how incredibly difficult it is for a child to grow and develop. I've also learned how incredibly exciting it is to watch a child grow and develop.

They never develop at the same time, but if one does something new the other one soon follows. The first time they rolled over. When they sat without falling over. Their first tooth. Crawling! Gaining an ounce is always a huge party at the doctor's office. And now they're putting weight on their legs and standing with help. I'm always asked how old they are because both of their petite 16 pound bodies make them look much younger than they are. And when strangers assume they can walk, based on their age, and set them on their feet and let their hands go. Noooo!!! Cue the slow-mo action movie clip as I dive to their rescue before they face plant.

They've got it rough sometimes. And it's unfortunately due to poor choices prior to their birth. But I love these little girls. And I'll continue to spend my days in doctor offices and not-so-fun meetings for them. Getting to be a small part of their life is worth it. Getting to celebrate the developmental milestones is worth it. Getting to watch them grow and share the joy they bring me is worth every documented event in their Red Books.

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.

Rollercoasters

Not ten minutes after I wrote my last blog about packing the girls' bags I got unexpected news. An email came that changed my lack of hope into an overwhelming feeling of happiness and confusion. It was an email I was praying for. An email I never thought would come.

30 days ago I received an email I was not ready for. The girls' case manager sent me a "30 Day Notice to Move." The girls' move was set into motion so they could be placed with a family member in another state. There were a lot of thoughts and questions and raw emotion that came with that news. Thoughts like "I knew this would happen some day." "All kids should be with their family." "I hope the girls will be safe and loved." Questions started entering my mind like "Why now? After a year? Why didn't this family member come around a year ago? " "Will the girls forget me?" "Will I see the girls again?" "Is this really best for them?" And then came the emotions: sadness, anger, frustration, confusion.

Over the last 30 days I had attempted to set up a get-together with the birth mother and the family member that will be placement. The birth mother sent texts thanking me for all I'd done. She told me how important I'd been to her and the girls. She said she knew continued contact would be needed because the girls would miss me. In all of my attempts to get together, I was always turned down with unexplained reasons. And then one week before the girls' final day with me I got another email from the case manager. That email was devastating. More devastating than the notice to move. This time I was told the birth mother and family member were playing me. While telling me they wanted continued contact, they were telling the case manager they were going to cut off contact with me as soon as the girls were in their possession.

I love rollercoasters. I live for adventure. I love the feeling of being out of control and having to trust I won't die. The faster the better. The more spirals, loops, and upside down turns make the ride more thrilling. Even the ones that go backwards and coasters where your legs dangle free. I love them! But riding a rollercoaster in a place created for fun and adventure is totally different than riding an emotional rollercoaster. I hate the latter. The last eight months have been a rollercoaster. The last 30 days have been been like that old, rickety, wooden rollercoaster that you can't wait to get off. Your head hurts, your body aches, you're exhausted, dizzy, ready to puke, and you're not 100% sure you're going to survive the ride.

The email that came yesterday was like the unexpected drop toward the end of the ride. That drop that comes just when you think the ride is slowing down and you're about to finally see the exit. The case manager's supervisor emailed this time. And the message made my head spin. I still don't have any answers or information for why, but the supervisor was asking if the girls could continue to come to my home. She asked if they could spend the weekends with me. She didn't know how long this would be or what it will look like. But she wanted to know if we could start right away.

I can't put into words how I felt. I had to read that email over and over and over. The sobs and tears and convulsions that overtook my body in that moment are somewhat embarrassing to think about! FINALLY!! Finally, someone is listening. Someone is paying attention to the girls' best interests. Even if for just one more weekend, I can be sure the girls are safe.

I sent a text to my family. They immediately responded. My mom called because she was driving and couldn't keep up with the texts. I answered the phone through tears, "Mom, I don't know what happened, but the girls aren't leaving yet. They're coming back home next weekend." I heard my mom sobbing and trying to exclaim, " Oh Anna! Oh Anna! I've been praying so hard for something, anything!" We both continued to do that awkward cry and laugh and yell with excitement through the phone. She was just a few blocks from my house and came right over. In the middle of it all my dad was texting about all the "creative" ways he was coming up with for how we could keep them even longer. My sisters were asking questions. It was seriously one of the most exciting, confusing, and joy-filled moment of this entire journey.

So now I sit here writing a post about the unknown of our future. Instead of the post I had planned to write about how we were spending our last 48 hours together. At some point during the ride, you start looking for the end of the rails because you're ready to get off. This has been the longest rollercoaster of my life. But I'm not ready to get off. Not yet. I expect a few more loops and turns on this ride. But I'm buckled in and I'm trusting I will survive.

Two Black Bags

Yesterday I spent the day packing. Packing two little lives into two black bags. The bags now sit next to my front door, staring me in the face. Sadness sweeps over me when I look at them. Two bags represent two lives. Two very young lives. Lives that have been shuffled from one home to another. No stability. No consistency.

Can you imagine fitting all your possessions in a bag? I look around my house and my view is changed. But this is reality for children in foster care. They move from place to place with a big black trash bag of their items. Their only possessions. This is their life. Their norm.

In their bag is clothing, toys, shoes, hair bows, socks, books, and blankets. They are 15 months old. They have moved four times--their birth mom's home, a previous foster home, my home, and now they are moving to their family member's home. Each time they take a big black bag. Strike that. When they came to my home they came with nothing. They only had the clothes on their backs. At least now they have something, right?

Just another pain in my heart that comes with fostering. When I go to work each day, I see the big bags sitting in our office hallway. I work for a foster care agency so I see kids move from place to place on a daily basis. I see the bags following kids. I see the kids without bags, longing for just one bag to call theirs. And I think of all the bags my house would fill. It's sickening.

While I continue to pack their things this weekend, it will be difficult. A little difficult because I have two little bodies crawling through the neatly folded piles of clothes. And climbing into my lap when I sit down to re-fold them. But more difficult because I have to put them into a bag. A bag that should not resemble the life these babies have lived. They're too young to remember me as they grow older. I just hope they're too young to remember these two big black bags.

Faith. Family. Friends.

My brain is full of blogs but we’ve been too busy to stop and jot them down. The last several days have been filled with family. Trying to soak up every minute we have with the girls can be exhausting! We spent the weekend at my sister’s (near Wichita) so they could say their goodbyes. My sister and her husband have four children and another on the way. They welcomed the twins as cousins without a second thought. Every opportunity any of them had to hold the girls was argued over. Every bottle was “dibbed” before I even got a chance to feed them. I don’t even think their little legs touched the ground whenever my nieces and nephew were around.

We also spend a lot of time with my other sister’s family (in Topeka). She and her husband have three children. The oldest walks into the room and you can hear Immediate giggles coming from the twins. I have to give my brother in law credit for his constant work with one of the girls to get her to crawl. She was the first of the two to crawl and I think it’s only because he wouldn’t let her give up.

My parents. I can’t say enough about grandma and grandpa. They were the ones getting me out of babysitting jams when I had to work late. They were the ones calling almost daily to check on the girls. When I got the flu, they showed up and towed us to their house so I could sleep while they spoiled the girls. When one of the babies swelled up like a beach ball, they raced to the ER so I wasn’t alone. When the twins got the flu at the same time, they turned their house into a contamination bubble so I didn’t go crazy. They shared my frustration whenever it seemed the system was failing the girls. They shared my tears when I found out the girls would leave my home. They never gave anyone an inkling that these two babies were any less than their own grandchildren. My two favorite things: hearing the girls and their grandpa crack up at each other when I’m in another room; watching the girls raise their arms and scream at the top of their lungs when their grandma walks through the door.

My aunts and uncles, my cousins, and my grandma. They all came to visit the girls. We travelled to visit all of them. We were showered with gifts and love; some gifts were a little less appreciated (all that Iowa State stuff!). Everyone in my family accepted the girls as mine. And theirs.

My friends have gathered around me and shown their acceptance of the girls as my family. They don’t ask me to find a babysitter every weekend. They tell me to “bring them along!” They listen when I need to vent about the recent court decisions. They cry with me. They laugh with me. They sit with me when I feel confused and broken. I have to give my friends credit for encouraging baby number two to crawl. And the sheer excitement and cheers that broke out in the room when she finally moved those little legs! My friends know when to call and or when to just let me be. They know when I need encouragement or just a simple hug without words. And they treat me and my girls like a normal family, no questions asked.

There are a lot of people that will have to say goodbye to my girls. There are a lot of people that have been a huge part in my raising of the girls. There are a lot of people that will miss them. The hardest part of learning the girls would leave my home was the thought that I’d have to tell all my friends and family the news.

I was given a 30 day notice when their family member was given the green light to take the girls. I spent the first two weeks only telling my parents, my sister’s families, my extended family, and a few close friends. I didn’t know how to tell everyone else. I didn’t know when to tell everyone else. Heck, I just called my grandma two days ago because I couldn’t bear the emotions of telling her! (don’t worry, my dad had told her long before that) The day I decided to tell my church family was tough. I knew it would be. I dreaded it. These are the people that have loved and supported me for 30 years. These are the people that have watched me grow up. These are the people that shared my family’s excitement when I finally got the “mom card.” These are the people that crowd the nursery every Sunday morning so they can pass the girls around. 

For some reason, this was the hardest group of people to tell. Maybe it’s because I knew it would be announced on stage during the prayer. Maybe it’s because hearing it out loud made it a reality. All I know is when the announcement was made, I heard the blare of the bus horn as it ran me over. You know when you’re watching a sad movie in the theater and you hold your breath to attempt to keep from unleashing those embarrassing sobs and uncontrollable sounds coming from your gut? Yep. That happened. Only I think I kept the noises to a minimum. Just when I thought I was in control, I felt a hand on my shoulder. My darn brother in law! And as I felt my chest tighten and my breathing stop, I caught both he and my sister wiping their eyes. Dang it!

I stop myself from getting too sad. I stop myself from crying too hard. I know it’s bound to happen at some point. I won’t be able to stop myself every time. But I’ve been raised to know, without a doubt, that I am doing the job I was made to do. I am caring for His children. I am teaching His children. I am being used to do things beyond my strength, because it’s only by His strength I can survive this. He has given me the courage to choose foster care. He has created my heart for loving and protecting these children. He has guided my every decision and He has led me on this journey. I will continue to do His work until I hear Him say, “Well done.”

This last week with my girls will without a doubt be the hardest week of my life. But I have what I need to get me thought it. My family. My friends. My faith.

Why?

A big question I get asked is “Why foster care?” To tell you the truth, I never imagined I would be a foster parent. This certainly was not part of my 10 year plan when I was in undergrad. It wasn’t even part of my 5 year plan when I was in graduate school.

A quick timeline of my life: I graduated college in 2003 and became a Children’s Minister. After serving in a church for 10 years (12 if you count internships) I realized I was not serving people to my fullest capacity so I became a therapist. While getting my Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy I worked in a child abuse agency and my eyes were opened to trauma children face and how they cope with it. In 2013 I began working as a therapist for children and their families in the foster care system.

After undergrad, I didn’t date much, if at all. In my early 20′s I began telling my family “if I’m single when I’m 35, I’m going to adopt.” You see, my entire life I’ve dreamt of the marriage and the children and the stay at home mom job. When I was in high school my family always joked that I’d be the first of my sisters to marry and end up with ten kids. That was just me. It still is. But my life looks a little different now. I still want the marriage, but I’m scared of it. I still want the kids, but maybe just two. I haven’t given up on my dreams, they just look different.

The idea of becoming a foster parent came about when I was at work a year ago and my boss said “you would be a great foster mom.” A few weeks later I enrolled in licensure classes and a few months after that I was licensed. I’ve wanted to have my own children, whether birthed or adopted, for years. Fostering seemed to be a good way of practicing. It would not only provide me with someone to care for and protect, it would give children someone to care for and protect them. The falling in love part wasn’t expected.

Children make wishes and fantasize and use their imagination to create great things. They don’t wish for their parents to abandon them or choose unhealthy vices over them. They don’t fantasize about how many different strangers they’ll live with over a lifetime. They don’t use their imagination to create the trauma and terror that comes with being stripped from their parents. If I can do one thing with my life, I hope I do this foster thing right. I hope the children I care for and protect feel loved.

So I don’t think the question should be “Why?” I think it’s actually “Why not?”

All That Hair!

“Look at all that hair!” That’s what I hear over and over when we run into people curious enough to peek inside their carriers. The first thing everyone sees is two tiny bodies overtaken by huge puffs on top of their heads. Dark, tiny spirals that are nearly impossible to manage. Their hair is like a people magnet and we can’t make it through Walmart, Target, Dillons or the mall without being stopped and oogled at.

You can’t imagine the things I find stuck in their hair throughout the day! And the products…oh the products! I have every kind of product you can think of–shampoo, conditioner, deep conditioner, oils, detanglers, creams, styling milk, co-conditioner, pudding, coconut spray, grease, wax, and the list goes on and on. Learning how to keep their hair conditioned and protected is definitely a skill one has to learn. I have friends gracious enough to advise me and share styling tips. I even bought a book for vanilla moms to care for chocolate hair…the girls do NOT like me messing with their hair so I never got a chance to practice the cute braids and twists the author made look so easy to try. So headbands and flower barrettes always win.

For the most part, I always get fun reactions from strangers wanting to ask all about the girls or just wanting to touch their hair or say Hi to them. But sometimes we get not-so-welcomed reactions. And this momma bear don’t like that! I always manage to keep my mouth shut and just smile, but there have been times I wanted to scratch that lady’s eyes out! Yes, we look different. Yes, I am out-numbered. Yes, you’re correct that I’m not wearing a gold band on my finger. Do those questions really give you the right to turn your nose up at me? Narrow your eyes at my beautiful babies? Walk past us with your judgy assumptions? No. Absolutely not.

Probably one of the most difficult parts of fostering is not having physical similarities to your children. I’ll never get the “they look so much like you!” But that’s okay. Because in my heart they are mine. In my heart we are exactly alike. And in my heart they will always be.

I am so incredibly in love with my girls! I love their skinny little feet. I love their dimples when they smile sweetly at me. I love their two little bottom teeth sticking up like they don’t quite fit right in their tiny mouths. I love their noises and squeals when we sing “Row row row your boat.” I love their tiny hands that fit so perfectly in mine. And I love their hair…all that hair!