Even Ground

          I don't know if you guys know this, but it's not actually October in Texas. June, maybe, or July. Even August. But there is no way this is October. The trees above my head still reach out their thick green arms. The grass below my feet is still lush. The only hint at autumn is the few brown leaves scattered on the ground. The heat is still ever-present, and I can still breathe the humidity into my lungs. Summer has not faded. It is a small blessing to my mind. I can deal with one change at a time - well, dozens - but at least I'm not filled with the faint melancholy that always seems to find me back home this time of year. 

         We haven't heard much about Baby N this week. Anything, actually. We were pretty unlucky with his caseworker. Some keep in constant contact with the families they nurture, and pass any little sliver of information back to the house parents here. Others, like Baby N's, simply call at the end of the month, right before their reports are due, to take notes. We hear from them when they drop a child into our arms, and again when they come to take him back. But in between, it's static. White noise. And afterwards? We'll consider ourselves lucky if we even hear "I think he's doing alright..."

          I'd give anything to see that boy's smile one more time. His picture, the one we took for his six month mark, is next to my nightstand. He's wearing a brown and white striped pajama onesie. I always called him "little monkey" when he was wearing it. It has been over a week, and we're all still patching ourselves up from the goodbyes. I'm starting to get the hang of it. I tuck the sadness deeper into my heart, sewing it up so it doesn't spill into the happy parts. I keep it there, though, because it belongs to Baby N. I send my love over the cracked and bumpy city roads. I hope it finds him well. 

          There was little time to breakdown last week. Within four hours, we had a new baby boy - little H. He's two months old, but he's only three pounds lighter than our nine-month-old girl. From his dark hair, his chubby legs, and his tan skin, he looks so much like Baby N. So alike that we have spent the past week reminding visitors and volunteers that it isn't Baby N. The ache throbs in my chest every time I see them write his name on paper, every time I hear them coo over him or tell the girls to be careful around him. It always takes me a moment to gather my pain close before reminding them of who they're holding. 

          Despite having to fill some big shoes - well, actually, they were pretty tiny - Baby H seems to be coming into his own. He loves bath time. and stays awake in his giraffe chair if the girls are loud and busy around him. His hands can't grip many toys, but they wrap tightly around my pinky finger. He has this broad, open grin that seems to strike him at the most spontaneous of times. His eyes glaze over just as he is about to fall asleep. I can't tell you how many times I've turned away to tie D's play apron on, only to turn back and find him fast asleep on his floor mat. The girls know his name already. They bend down to examine him every so often, pointing to his tiny nose or moving mouth, forming the word and pointing to their own. They have been better at accepting him than I have, and I love them even more for that. 

          I dropped F and D off at another parent visit last week. Mo joked that I'm not allowed to pick them up anymore, since I cry every time. I can't help it! When their caseworker hands Baby F over to me after she's spent the past hour in a hysterical panic, and she breaks into a grin - it's a great and terrible thing. My heart soars to know that little mind, that tiny soul recognizes my arms as a safe place. For a brief moment, all I think is "mine." The words fall together in my mind, four letters slipping in beside each other. I inhale and the word grows bigger, taking up space in my heart, filling my mind. 

          

          But then I look up and see her mother. Her arms are still outstretched, reaching for her little girl who has already thrown her stubby arms around my legs. Reaching for the ghost of her, for her shadow. And the four letters that just inflated my entire soul begin to melt into another word - "hers." This word doesn't lift me. It weighs me down. The letters sink to my toes, each one a heavy, twisted metal. No matter how hard I try, I can't fill that ballooning word of "mine" back up again.

          It is this battle - the soaring mine tied down to the heavy hers - that has become one of the most difficult here. I'm still in the irrational protector phase. Mo is lucky. She has moved beyond it. She understands that mother and child are meant to be united, not split down the middle. She understands that these mothers and fathers are attempting to become whole themselves, so that they may welcome back the very last piece of their world - their children. 

          Casa is a pretty phenomenal place, when I begin to think about it. Foster care is often viewed as a grim, desolate road. After all, it exists simply because there is anger and pain and despair within people - exists because enough people have twisted that negativity toward their own children. I must not forget that it is a dark road not only for the kids, but for the parents as well. A road littered with the pains of the past behind them and the absolute uncertainty of the future in front. A road that turns the monsters of their childhood into the monsters within them, haunting a new generation

         Casa acts to light the way. It kindles fires and switches on streetlamps and intensifies the stars above - anything to offer a bit of warmth and light along that dark road. Just one more shining glow up ahead can act as a haven to stop and rest while the fears about what comes next remain stuck outside the brightened path. 

          I need to remember, when I collect these tiny souls in my outstretched arms, that they will only be forever mine in memory. I need to remember that their mothers are simply standing in the glow of the next streetlamp, inhaling the light and attempting to spot the next spark in the distance. Casa will always be the absolute brightest beacon, but there will be many more times when I have to let my kids step back into the shadows, with only the hope that there will be more lights along their path. All I can do now is teach them how to start their own fires. 

xoxo G