A Crashing Wave

Driving to work this morning I experienced one of those quick-thinking parental instincts. Big sister sneezed and blew a snot rocket all over her face. It was one of those moments when panic sets in. I searched quickly for something, anything, that would soak up the mess. I had NOTHING. Immediately, I began rifling through problem solving skills in my head. Pull over? That won't help. Go back home? That'll take too long. Use the wadded up receipt tucked under the floor mat? Probably not the best option. Gas station!! I could see it ahead of us just a few blocks. But wait, it would be incredibly time consuming and challenging to get both girls out of their car seats, walk them into the store, back to the bathroom, and then use toilet paper. All that snot would most likely be all over my work pants or her new outfit at that point. I can't leave them in the car and run inside to buy a box of Kleenex...Lord knows I'd get turned into the state child protection services. And seeing a how I work for them, I'm sure I'd lose my job.

Then it hits me. As I turn into the gas station, I pull up right next to a pump and see the paper towels from the window washer buckets flapping in the breeze. Perfect! I swipe one, reach back and clean her face, and toss the towel on the back floorboard as I step on the gas. A 30 second detour and we made it to daycare on time.

Now, that's a picture of my brain during this 5 minute episode. What drivers around me and what my girls could see and hear was a totally different experience. I'm sure Sister kept putting her fingers up to her face because she was doing some research. She was researching "what sound momma makes when my fingers get close to this goop on my upper lip." And the drivers around me were probably wondering if they should stop and offer medical assistance. Here's what my person looked and sounded like: "Ew! That's so yucky! <cough> No! Don't touch it! <gag> Ew! No! Put your hand down! No! <dry heave> Sister no! Don't touch! <gagging dry heave>" as my head was whipping back and forth from watching the road to watching those tiny fingers smear that goopy, thick mess down onto her lips and over onto her cheek...with a huge toothy grin growing on her face the entire time. Ugh!

Once we reached daycare, life was back to normal and my stomach was back in it's original setting. We have a little routine we go through when I drop them off and then I escape while they get distracted with breakfast. Today, when I got back in my car I took a quick minute to check Facebook. The first status that popped up reminded me that today my childhood friends, who are also foster parents, would be facing a very difficult day of telling the children goodbye that have been in their home for a very long time. I sent my friends a text and then began my drive to work. I only made it a few blocks before it hit me.

A crashing wave. It hits every once in a while, when you least expect it. The world around you disappears and you don't know up from down. All of your breath gets knocked out of you and you feel as though you're suffocating. The sounds coming out of your body are unrecognizable. When your chest finally opens up, and you suck in air like its the first time you've tasted oxygen, the wave crashes over you again. I've met this wave a few times over the last several months. Sometimes it's just as I'm falling asleep in a very quiet, dark house. Sometimes it's when I'm relaxing on the couch after they're tucked in bed. Sometimes its when I'm sitting in my office. Today, as always, it was least expected. It came with the heavy emotions I was feeling for my friends. Knowing their hurt. Knowing their sadness. It's such a bitter sweet process, telling your foster children goodbye, and it's never easy. I will experience it in a few weeks, and I can hardly breathe when I think about it. Knowing today was their day, reminded me that my day is closer than I realize. When I drop the girls off at daycare or load them into a car that takes them to visit their family, I give them kisses and know I will see them soon. In a few weeks, I will give them kisses and face the reality that I will never see them again. I expect a typhoon to hit. I don't know when, but I know it will.

For now, I will pray for my friends that are hurting. I will find the pride in those quick-thinking moments of parenthood. And I will wipe those gag-inducing little noses.

Looking For Answers

As my cousin Chad would say, "Oy!"

A lot of people have recently asked me what is going on with the girls. I decided I should update with a blog because it's been weeks since I've taken the time to do so. It's not easy to sit down and put all my thoughts in writing because sometimes I just can't record what is going on. Either it would break confidentiality or I just can't form the right words. But I'll try my best.

We've been to the children's hospital a lot this summer. A lot. I've missed a lot of work and it hasn't been for fun. I was just telling a co-worker today that all the PTO I've been using may look to others like I'm relaxing and having a good break somewhere in the world. But in reality, I'm either sitting in a small hospital room for hours or I'm driving from back and forth from KC to Topeka for the girls' appointments.

To sum it up quickly, the girls are on track to becoming healthier (they have a long ways to go still) and they will more than likely move to a family member's home soon. I wish I could say everything that has been going on, but I still don't have all the answers. We've had scared of possible hospital stays and feeding tubes, but God has answered prayers and people are beginning to do the right thing, so I am confident the girls will be okay. We have two more upcoming hospital days and then I'll know where this road leads. This is why I always say, "Oy!"

So the other question people want to know is how am I handling all of this. My entire life I've approached the unknown with a casual attitude. I don't focus on what could happen, but rather what is happening right now. Right now I know I am focused on following the multitude of recommendations I get from different doctors each week. I'm focused on enjoying each weekend with my girls. I'm focused on learning new hairstyles and picking out cute outfits every morning. I'm focused on cheering for one baby each time she decides to practice walking...she's very wobbly, extremely hesitant, and hilarious to watch! Her total steps without falling over so far has reached FOUR! Lol!! The other baby could care a big fat less about walking.

What am I trying not to focus on? Exhaustion. I'm tired. I'm worn down and I'm ready for this ride to end. The day I lose my baby girls will be the worst day in my life. But I know it's going to happen. I've prepared myself multiple times and then something stops it from happening. But one of these days, very soon, it won't be stopped. Even though I'm dreading that day, I'm also looking forward to the day when I can finally breathe again. For so long I've felt like I'm suffocating on my emotions. The back and forth, the blame I get from their family, the court dates, the doctors, the case managers...I'm focused on the day when all of that disappears.

Then my focus will be on healing. I'm going to need a lot of time for healing.

But for now, I'm focused on finding answers. I'm focused on tiny steps. I'm focused on moisturizing, braids, and puffs. I'm focused on sweet kisses and snuggles. And most of all I'm focused on cherishing every moment I have with my two tiny babes.

01:15:00

One hour and fifteen minutes. That's how much time it takes to drive from my house to the children's hospital nearest us. We've traveled that way just a few times in the last year. Only when absolutely necessary. Most of our appointments are with doctors in Topeka. As the girls have aged, their deficits have become more pronounced. Which means we'll have more opportunities to make that drive.

One hour and fifteen minutes is plenty of time to make a list. So that's what I do. Today I made a list. One of the girls has chronic ear and respiratory infections. So today we traveled to the children's hospital to see a specialist. While I drove, I made my list. My list of questions for the doctor, for the case manager, and for God. Questions for the doctor included a lot of Whys. Questions for the case manager included a lot of What-are-we-gonna-do-about---. Questions for God included a lot of What Ifs. Once I had a solid list, I took a deep breath. The anxious feelings swelling in my gut were too confusing to deal with, so I did what I could. I prayed.

One hour and fifteen minutes is a lot of time to pray. I prayed for the girls. I prayed for the innocent, not-feeling-so-good little one sitting behind me. I prayed for their biological mom. I prayed for their family member that is still trying to get them. I prayed for my family. I prayed for my friend, whose little girl is having surgery later this week. And then I prayed for my heart. My heart that doesn't allow for any feelings around the unknown future of our case. Because allowing any feelings would only result in breakage.

Once we arrived at the hospital and saw the specialist, we got some answers. Not all my questions were answered, but some. Next Monday we go back. On that day, both girls will see another specialist. That time it'll be for more tests. These girls have been poked and prodded so many times, but my hope and prayer is that we will gain more answers next Monday. The good news, the girls are using their legs! They both stand at furniture, and one decided to show off last weekend and let go, and is now walking behind a ladybug rider toy. They eat really well but continue to not gain and lose weight. They're 18 months, wearing 9 month clothes and infant size 2 shoes. And they have mouths full of teeth that are too big for their tiny, beautiful faces! One says "Mom, Mom, Mom" over and over and over and over and over, no matter how many times I say "what?" while the other one disappears in the house like a silent ninja. They both giggle so hard they fall over. And their hair continues to grow puffier! The bad news, the specialist today answered questions about their care while on visits with their bio family that I didn't like hearing. After leaving the hospital I was able to get my mind off some of these answers while visiting a friend. And then I had phone conversations with my parents. And then began the drive home.

One hour and fifteen minutes home. Plenty of time to think. It was pouring rain on our drive home. The radio in my car wouldn't pick up a signal. So I listened. I listened to the raspy breaths of a sleeping baby behind me. And I got mad. The thought of a parent not doing everything in their power to keep their child safe and healthy angers me. As a therapist, I do an exercise with kids I work with. We blow up balloons. Red balloons. Red equals the color of anger. The size of the balloon equals how much anger you're feeling in your body. Small balloons equal marginal anger, or the feeling of being mad. As the balloons get bigger, we identify different stages of anger feelings. If I were to blow up a red balloon in my car today, it would have exploded. The list of questions for God I had made earlier in the day began to consume me. I wasn't just angry at the girls' bio family. I was angry at Him. Not just for the girls' sake, but for mine. For putting me in this place. For opening doors I now wanted to slam shut in His face. For breaking my heart.

What if I can't stop the girls from moving to another state? What if I can't control where their tiny feet go? What if I can't protect their small, delicate hands from being pulled into harms way? What if they move out of my home, leaving me broken?

One hour and fifteen minutes. Driving through rain. Through tears. And then it stopped. The radio found a station. I could hear her sleeping behind me again. She was safe. And I was reminded of His great love and the peace I have for God's will in my life. This is what played:
        When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, "It is well, it is well with my soul." Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blessed assurance control; that Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and has shed his own blood for my soul. "It is well, it is well with my soul." Oh Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; the trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend; even so, it is well with my soul.

Mother's Day

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. Mother's Day. Every year this is the day I spend focusing on my mom. In the days leading up to tomorrow, I would normally buy a gift for my mom and plan a lunch with my sisters to honor our mom. It's a day I've never celebrated for myself. A day I've wished were mine to celebrate. Every year I've sat in church and clapped for the Mothers as they stand and are recognized for their greatest accomplishments. I've watched Mothers accept flowers or small gifts from those they love. I've watched Mothers on this day through eyes yearning to be "just like them."

As I gave the girls their usual Saturday evening bath tonight, I realized tomorrow is My Day. Mother's Day! A day I finally get to celebrate for myself. It's surreal. The girls were crawling around after their bath being silly, as usual, and repeatedly hollering "Momma!" I am their momma. I love them more than I could ever imagine loving two little bitty humans.

They give kisses now. They're pulling themselves up to furniture and toys. They're gaining weight (barely!). They're walking their stiff-legged walk with help of anyone that will be patient with them. If you don't mind turtling it from one place to the next they'll hold both your hands and giggle while they practice their walking skills. One has this new move she constantly does, it's like she's making a bridge with her body, standing bent over with her feet and hands on the ground while looking upside down through her legs. She cracks herself up and makes everyone in the room laugh. The other one sings sweet songs to you if you sit quietly and listen--but be warned, she will sing long songs, all in the same tone, using one syllable. They're changing so much, every day, and growing up so quickly. They're still my teeny tiny girls, but they have huge personalities.

Tomorrow I get to celebrate being their mom. I won't get flowers from a husband. I won't get a card. I won't be spoiled for a day. But I'll know I'm a mom. I'll look at my beautiful twins and see all their accomplishments. I'll stand in church and not have to wonder when it's my turn. Tomorrow is Mother's Day. Tomorrow is My Day.

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.