What They Don't Teach You in Licensing Class

I wouldn't know where to begin if I were to write a thorough explanation of this blog title.  In class we're taught to be "Child Grief Specialists."  Meaning that we must make ourselves ever aware of the reprecussions their loss will have on their behavior, eating and sleeping habits, etc.  We have to be ever aware and ever compassionate through these trials.  But never once is the grief and heartache we as foster parents feel covered in that class.

For six months, a sensitive, affectionate, two-year-old boy, and his chubby, stubborn, hilarious baby sister called me "Mamma."  They looked to me for comfort in the middle of the night and when they fell.  They showed me each new discovery they made and worked hard to make me laugh.  They learned things from me and grew to trust me. 

And then in one weird court session, that was brought to an abrupt halt as they were sent home.

Packing up their things, their clothes and toys, putting their favorite "bee bee" and Bunny and Bear into bags to send home helped me accept that their time with us was over.  Cleaning their bedding and moving their old clothes into storage bins gave me a chance to look forward and to pray for the next children who'd sleep in those bed and be warmed by those clothes.  But today, on my cleaning rampage, when it was time for the Windex portion of the marathon, I had no idea how hard it would be to expunge the front storm door of evidence of sweet, sticky fingerprints left as Little Man showed Baby Girl the "KWER-EL!"  or the falling "Leeeees!"  It was harder still to erase the kisses Baby Girl had given herself in her reflection on the shiny, black front of the oven door- because she loved to give kisses and gave the very best of them.  Oh, how I miss those two.  So much that it hurts my chest and wrenches my stomach.  Humans weren't created to be foster mammas and daddas.   There is nothing natural about it.  Not to me at least.

We received no instruction or warning of this grief.  There was no mention in class of the emotional toll this process can take on the foster parents themselves.  They do not mention that once the kids leave with all of their stuff, your home feels empty and your heart feels a little hollow.  Never heard a word about it spoken.  Since Grant and I have brains, we knew it would be hard, but not the extent of it.  Sometimes I feel frustrated with God for calling us to this- to having our hearts broken as we knew they would be.  No, that's dishonest.  Sometimes I get really pissed off about it.  It feels wildly unfair.  But it never takes me long to recoil at myself- the unfair part of all of this is that kids are ever in a position to be removed from their homes in the first place-and that is NOT the work of our good, loving God.  In the deepest part of me I'm not angry about my loss, but angry at the injustice wreaked upon the lives of the kids, and honored to be a resting place for their beautiful little souls.

I recently told Grant that I'd heard that the first time sending kids home is always the hardest.  That I believed it might get easier for us.  His response was wise and lovely.  He said that it shouldn't get easier.  If it started getting easier for us than we weren't loving the kids as deeply and as fully as we should be and he prayed we'd never reach that point.  Because every child deserves to be fallen in love with-completely.

The house is clean now and my phone is ever by my side.  I'm praying now for the family who's life is falling apart somehow- because of drug-use, mental-illness, incarceration, poverty- which will result in the removal of their children from their home.  I'm praying for those babies to be protected until they can get to us.  We're waiting for you, babies.  I've got a shiny, black canvas of an oven door for you to dirty up as much as you'd like.