As always, it's been a while. I try to keep up with this, but it's difficult to find time and space to gather my thoughts. It usually happens right before I'm drifting off to a heavy sleep, or while I'm rocking Baby F in my arms in the dark solace of the night. A moment to myself - it's been weeks.
Toward the end of last month, I took a time out from Houston. It was my first in four and a half months. Alex came to visit, and it was a break I desperately needed. I'm the last person to take a vacation in my house. Four and a half straight months of constant mom-duty. Of course, I'm in love with the work I do, but I needed to breathe clean air into my lungs if I wanted to keep breathing at all.
Alex and I took off to San Antonio, and it turned out to be everything I needed. The concrete and gleaming metal of Houston's skyscrapers are replaced with brown and brick. A river runs straight through the city, and you can catch the stairs down every few blocks, walking beside it while it snakes just one level below the bustling noise. We rode the elevator 750 feet up the Tower of the Americas, and pointed out the miniature versions of landmarks we had seen up close. We treated ourselves to good food and good wine. We let our worries - of doctor's visits and diaper rashes, of term papers and TA appointments - all fall to the wayside while we inhaled our brief freedom. Walking through the Alamo, tracing the ghosts of history, we found San Antonio. It's a city I hope to go back to, but one that will now always remind me of Alex. So come back, and we can make a new city our own! I hear Austin is lovely this time of year...
This past month, our house has been a revolving door. We're getting better at it, though. I'm not quite sure if that's a good thing. We understand the mechanics. Scrounge up a duffel. Fold up all the favorite clothes. New pack of diapers. Clean bottles. A few books. Slide glossy photos into clear plastic pockets. Fill out paperwork. Favorite foods. Dealing with tantrums. Bedtime routines. Somehow, there aren't enough lines to explain exactly how to tuck her in so she'll sleep through the night, or how to fold her perfectly into your side when she's sick. I could write a book on my kids.
It's a reality that hit hard a few weeks ago. We had to give up Baby H for a short weekend, just to another house down the block. Our spot was needed for an emergency intake. The neighborhood was full - more than full, actually. The same day, the office accepted a set of newborn twins. Someone had to be re-licensed as a legal foster parent in order to take them in. After that, there was absolutely no more room for new kids. Until Baby GB. His mom came into the office toward the end of the day. She was frantic, begging them to take her three-month-old son. Whether it was out of desperation or an honest feeling of absolute hopelessness, she used her last weapon - admitting she would kill herself and then the baby. So we took him in. There was no other choice. We did what we do best. We rearranged, made compromises, and fit another soul into our hearts.
Baby GB had a shock of silky black hair and the biggest eyes I've ever seen on something so little. He was a mere ten pounds, despite his age. In fact, nothing about him said three-month-old. The frailness of his arms and legs. The angry clench of his tiny fists. The hours and hours and hours he spent fast asleep. His acid reflux was so bad that for every two ounces he drank, he spit up half. The hours that he wasn't asleep were spent in complete agony. His stomach ached so badly that he would arch his entire body backwards, so we took shifts holding him. I would hook his tiny feet into the crook of my elbow and fold him together - the only way to soothe his pain.
I spent his first two nights with him. I think that's why I connected so quickly. The other girls think it's because we knew his story right off the bat. Usually, information comes in like rain. We hear a trickling when they first come in, mostly why Mom dropped them off. A few days pass, a few more drops fall. Where dad is, that grandma was taking care of them for months. A few weeks pass, and the storm comes. Stories after stories. Mom was homeless. Allegations of abuse. Grandparents contending for custody and but for the glory of winning.
I'm not sure why I bonded with Baby GB so quickly. It usually takes me a few days to concede I like a child, which is a hard admission. I thought I'd come here and tear my heart wide open for every single kid to walk straight into, to take solace. There's no survival in that, though. For me or for the kid. I don't want to become like every outsider they've come across - a plastic smile and soothing words that turn out empty. For most of these kids, this is the first place that has come through for them. When they first come in, we both feel the imprint of what we have lost. I see the shadow of the one I've just hugged goodbye, a black outline ghosting behind a new kid in scuffed sneakers. They look at me and see what I am trying to be - a temporary mother.
For the first few days, it's just survival. We wash the soiled clothes, scrub the dirty skin in the bathtub. We make pancakes for breakfast, hot dogs for lunch, and mac and cheese for dinner - anything to get them to eat. We uncap Play Doh containers and offer pushes on the swing and sing bedtime songs all the way up the stairs. And after a few days, the ghost of what we've lost slowly fades. I know the only book he'll listen to all the way through. I know exactly what toy she'll ask for when I open the closet. I know what song will calm him enough for sleep. And after a while, I don't know how I'll ever be able to let them go.
Baby GB broke all the rules, though. Even when he was screaming his tiny, raw lungs out, my blood didn't quicken with stress or impatience. I just folded him into my arms and walked heavy footsteps around the dark kitchen. He was my little lost boy. He was meant to be the golden link in a broken, rusted chain -- Mom had been a kid here twenty years ago. She was adopted out, and the spell of poverty and neglect was supposed to be magically broken. But it persisted, perhaps even intensified.
At first, this thought filled me with a heavy sense of futility. This system doesn't work, I thought. The work we are doing has no effect. I was wrong. Maybe we wish the change was more immediate, more groundbreaking. But some wounds really cannot mend. Whatever happened to GB's mother must have cut her so deeply that there was little chance to heal. Perhaps she could function normally, but there would always be one hand pressed to that wound, trying to staunch the blood that just wouldn't let up.
Before coming here, that would seem such a grim reality. But this life has put sadness into an entirely new perspective. No longer dark and light, lost and found, forgotten and saved. It's a spectrum, this chaos we all wade in. Maybe we couldn't push GB's mom into a brightened path, but we were able to rescue him from what could have been his end. That will never be a futile point.
And now, we've taken two new kids into our home. We said goodbye to Baby GB, then after a brief reunion, Baby H. We welcomed G, a tiny girl with enormous energy, then said goodbye two weeks later. Two days ago, we opened our door to Baby A - a girl I first met exactly four and a half months ago, when she was in the house in which I trained. Baby A, along with her two brothers, left about a month later. This week, our caseworker found them living in an apartment with bullet holes in the walls. M, a four-year-old, told her that bullets buzzed over their heads as they slept on the floor. So we took all three kids back. We have had Baby A for two days now, and M switched houses and came to us yesterday. In all likelihood, they will probably only be with us for three weeks. Another sibling set is leaving toward the end of November, so all three will be reunited in an open house. For now, though, they are ours. As always, we will love them like they'll never leave.
Toward the end of last month, I took a time out from Houston. It was my first in four and a half months. Alex came to visit, and it was a break I desperately needed. I'm the last person to take a vacation in my house. Four and a half straight months of constant mom-duty. Of course, I'm in love with the work I do, but I needed to breathe clean air into my lungs if I wanted to keep breathing at all.
Alex and I took off to San Antonio, and it turned out to be everything I needed. The concrete and gleaming metal of Houston's skyscrapers are replaced with brown and brick. A river runs straight through the city, and you can catch the stairs down every few blocks, walking beside it while it snakes just one level below the bustling noise. We rode the elevator 750 feet up the Tower of the Americas, and pointed out the miniature versions of landmarks we had seen up close. We treated ourselves to good food and good wine. We let our worries - of doctor's visits and diaper rashes, of term papers and TA appointments - all fall to the wayside while we inhaled our brief freedom. Walking through the Alamo, tracing the ghosts of history, we found San Antonio. It's a city I hope to go back to, but one that will now always remind me of Alex. So come back, and we can make a new city our own! I hear Austin is lovely this time of year...
This past month, our house has been a revolving door. We're getting better at it, though. I'm not quite sure if that's a good thing. We understand the mechanics. Scrounge up a duffel. Fold up all the favorite clothes. New pack of diapers. Clean bottles. A few books. Slide glossy photos into clear plastic pockets. Fill out paperwork. Favorite foods. Dealing with tantrums. Bedtime routines. Somehow, there aren't enough lines to explain exactly how to tuck her in so she'll sleep through the night, or how to fold her perfectly into your side when she's sick. I could write a book on my kids.
It's a reality that hit hard a few weeks ago. We had to give up Baby H for a short weekend, just to another house down the block. Our spot was needed for an emergency intake. The neighborhood was full - more than full, actually. The same day, the office accepted a set of newborn twins. Someone had to be re-licensed as a legal foster parent in order to take them in. After that, there was absolutely no more room for new kids. Until Baby GB. His mom came into the office toward the end of the day. She was frantic, begging them to take her three-month-old son. Whether it was out of desperation or an honest feeling of absolute hopelessness, she used her last weapon - admitting she would kill herself and then the baby. So we took him in. There was no other choice. We did what we do best. We rearranged, made compromises, and fit another soul into our hearts.
Baby GB had a shock of silky black hair and the biggest eyes I've ever seen on something so little. He was a mere ten pounds, despite his age. In fact, nothing about him said three-month-old. The frailness of his arms and legs. The angry clench of his tiny fists. The hours and hours and hours he spent fast asleep. His acid reflux was so bad that for every two ounces he drank, he spit up half. The hours that he wasn't asleep were spent in complete agony. His stomach ached so badly that he would arch his entire body backwards, so we took shifts holding him. I would hook his tiny feet into the crook of my elbow and fold him together - the only way to soothe his pain.
I spent his first two nights with him. I think that's why I connected so quickly. The other girls think it's because we knew his story right off the bat. Usually, information comes in like rain. We hear a trickling when they first come in, mostly why Mom dropped them off. A few days pass, a few more drops fall. Where dad is, that grandma was taking care of them for months. A few weeks pass, and the storm comes. Stories after stories. Mom was homeless. Allegations of abuse. Grandparents contending for custody and but for the glory of winning.
I'm not sure why I bonded with Baby GB so quickly. It usually takes me a few days to concede I like a child, which is a hard admission. I thought I'd come here and tear my heart wide open for every single kid to walk straight into, to take solace. There's no survival in that, though. For me or for the kid. I don't want to become like every outsider they've come across - a plastic smile and soothing words that turn out empty. For most of these kids, this is the first place that has come through for them. When they first come in, we both feel the imprint of what we have lost. I see the shadow of the one I've just hugged goodbye, a black outline ghosting behind a new kid in scuffed sneakers. They look at me and see what I am trying to be - a temporary mother.
For the first few days, it's just survival. We wash the soiled clothes, scrub the dirty skin in the bathtub. We make pancakes for breakfast, hot dogs for lunch, and mac and cheese for dinner - anything to get them to eat. We uncap Play Doh containers and offer pushes on the swing and sing bedtime songs all the way up the stairs. And after a few days, the ghost of what we've lost slowly fades. I know the only book he'll listen to all the way through. I know exactly what toy she'll ask for when I open the closet. I know what song will calm him enough for sleep. And after a while, I don't know how I'll ever be able to let them go.
Baby GB broke all the rules, though. Even when he was screaming his tiny, raw lungs out, my blood didn't quicken with stress or impatience. I just folded him into my arms and walked heavy footsteps around the dark kitchen. He was my little lost boy. He was meant to be the golden link in a broken, rusted chain -- Mom had been a kid here twenty years ago. She was adopted out, and the spell of poverty and neglect was supposed to be magically broken. But it persisted, perhaps even intensified.
At first, this thought filled me with a heavy sense of futility. This system doesn't work, I thought. The work we are doing has no effect. I was wrong. Maybe we wish the change was more immediate, more groundbreaking. But some wounds really cannot mend. Whatever happened to GB's mother must have cut her so deeply that there was little chance to heal. Perhaps she could function normally, but there would always be one hand pressed to that wound, trying to staunch the blood that just wouldn't let up.
Before coming here, that would seem such a grim reality. But this life has put sadness into an entirely new perspective. No longer dark and light, lost and found, forgotten and saved. It's a spectrum, this chaos we all wade in. Maybe we couldn't push GB's mom into a brightened path, but we were able to rescue him from what could have been his end. That will never be a futile point.
And now, we've taken two new kids into our home. We said goodbye to Baby GB, then after a brief reunion, Baby H. We welcomed G, a tiny girl with enormous energy, then said goodbye two weeks later. Two days ago, we opened our door to Baby A - a girl I first met exactly four and a half months ago, when she was in the house in which I trained. Baby A, along with her two brothers, left about a month later. This week, our caseworker found them living in an apartment with bullet holes in the walls. M, a four-year-old, told her that bullets buzzed over their heads as they slept on the floor. So we took all three kids back. We have had Baby A for two days now, and M switched houses and came to us yesterday. In all likelihood, they will probably only be with us for three weeks. Another sibling set is leaving toward the end of November, so all three will be reunited in an open house. For now, though, they are ours. As always, we will love them like they'll never leave.
I am so proud of the work you are doing. The lessons you are learning now - that there is some good in everyone, that children can be resilient, that the effort is worth it even if not always successful - are ones that you cannot learn in college. You will be a much richer human being for it. - Mom
ReplyDelete