Easy Smiles, Tough Days

          So sorry I haven't written in so long! Casa tends to pick you up in a whirlwind every once in a while, and my feet have just begin to come back down. I'm getting a little bit tired of goodbyes. I know, that sounds pretty ironic coming from a foster parent. I willingly plunged headfirst into the ocean of goodbyes - it is the one word that might perfectly personify every outcome here. But when those goodbyes come like a swell of waves, breaking onto the sand one after another, it's difficult to not get soaked in sadness. It's hard to stay afloat.

          Little P's case went before CPS about two weeks ago. We had it marked on the calendar, one day before Allison was set to return from a weeklong vacation. We had crossed our fingers that Allison would make it back in time. But that morning turned into pure chaos. It was an all-out battle of too many things to do against too little time. I took D to therapy while Monique went to a WIC appointment with Baby H. I had absentmindedly checked the time while D drew pumpkins and read books with her speech therapist. When my phone lit up on a long message from Monique, I knew what the rest of the day was about to bring. 

          Apparently, Leah had stopped by to ask if P was all packed. For what? "Oh hell," she said, "I thought you guys knew." CPS had made a decision, and they were taking custody. Once again, our goodbyes were crammed into one day. We didn't have any more time to paint handprints or put on her dinosaur costume or chase after zombies on the playground - all of P's favorites. Instead, our last few hours with her were spent scribbling through paperwork and cramming pictures into her lifebook. Monique let her pick out one last pretty dress - a white one with yellow and purple flowers, with a ribbon over both shoulders. We oohed and ahhed as she twirled around in the living room for us. 

          I was the last to say goodbye. P sat in my lap and watched a final video Allison had sent for her. P was so fascinated that we watched it twice. She stood up, and I asked for a hug. Her arms went around me  - I even got a kiss on the cheek. I watched the van leave the neighborhood and stood on the stoop, not wanting to go back inside, not wanting to listen for that little voice saying "G'morning Gra-yce!" and hear silence instead. 

          You are so very incredible, little P. I will hold tight to everything you have taught me - taught all of us - by just being you. I'll always remember you sitting at the kitchen table when you first came in, grasping a slice of pizza in one hand and a grease-drenched plate in the other, doing nothing with either. The first few weeks were rough. You screamed. You ran away from us. You tested our patience more than any other kid, and cackled when we got close to snapping. Bedtime was a battle. You pushed up onto your knees and laughed everytime we told you to lie down. 

          Little by little, though, you settled in here. I remember the exact moment I fell in love with you. It was naptime, and you had obviously only slept about an hour. I was sitting on the couch with you while Monica folded laundry on the carpet. You nestled into me, grabbed books and scaled the side of the couch just to sit in my lap. You covered us with blankets, pointed out the elephants in each book. I was a goner.

          We sent you with your favorite books - I hope you have them with you. The ocean book, with the octopus that you'd point out before the page was even turned. The rainbow book, too. You used to pull on each little ribbon and ask the color, practicing the word. I hope you continue to find comfort in books, little one. Keep on reading, and I promise you will discover many more adventures. 

          Because you are so very strong, P. In both muscle and in mind. I still laugh at videos of your crazy dancing legs. Every time "Be Ok" comes on our radio station, I think of you. I hear your voice singing the chorus. Please don't lose that passion. I am amazed by you. Even in your toughest tantrums, I was still a little bit proud that you felt so strongly and fought so hard. You are an absolutely beautiful little person. You are aware and intrigued and inspired by every little thing around you. I hope that spirit grows as you do. 

          And please, put a little faith in the world, my chickadee. I know you've spent the first two years of your life just trying to stay afloat. I remember that faraway look in your eyes when you first came to us. But I also remember the laughter, the energy, the spark I saw in you after two short months. I know people can hurt you, but I also know they can heal you. Just don't look at everyone as the enemy, or you may find yourself very lonely. There are some pretty incredible people out there, and you happen to be one of them. 

          So go make waves, my smart girl. Be the tough-as-nails, wound-up, always twirling, constantly learning bright star that I'll always remember you as. Good luck, and as always, I'll be sending my love from afar. Always my tiny chickadee. 

       I promise, I will try to start writing about the good parts of this place. I know you all must think that I fall madly in love with these children and then lock myself away, inconsolably sobbing, each time they leave. I mean - yes, I do that, too. But the incredible people here somehow manage to hold each other together. We send lasagnas in chipped casserole dishes to houses that lose kids. We write notes, share pictures, and give space. Somehow, it works. I am unbelievably happy here. I am thankful every single day that I have stumbled upon this place. For right now, I am exactly where I am meant to be. This is my place, my spot in time. It all fits. For the first time, I can acknowledge that I am good at the work I'm doing. I am not shy or abashed or demure - I am strong and proud. This is an adventure, and I am loving every minute of it.