Well and Weary

          These days fly past me faster than I can reach out and grab them. The mornings sift between my fingers, the afternoons trickle by underneath my feet. The nights pass in this suspension of reality. It feels as if I am the only one awake to breathe in the dark, and the world starts spinning again only when the sun breaks across the sky. 

          I'm just beginning one of those nights now. D and V both fell asleep hours ago, although they tossed and turned in their beds for a while. Baby F and Baby GL had free reign of the living room for a few hours after the big kids went to bed. They love being in the spotlight, and fight sleep until they're dead on their feet. The rest of the house always seems to follow an hour or so after. We lounge around and steal the kids' snacks, sometimes we break out the cards or board games. We're middle-aged mothers during the day and ten-year-olds every night. What's not to love?

          We said goodbye to Baby A and her older brother, M, about two weeks ago. Even though we had them for only fourteen days, I wanted so badly to hold them tighter. The house was finally in sync again. M's constant chatter pushed D to use her voice - to speak the words and sounds and endless ideas swirling in her head. Baby A was my little monkey. She would climb all over everything and everyone. In my lap, her long limbs folded up, made her impossibly compact. Monica says that I'm Baby A's "person" - that she lights up when she sees me, just like Baby F does for her. I wish so badly that she could have been ours for longer. We still make each other laugh on the playground. It's good for both M and Baby A to be reunited with their brother. They can be as close to a real family as possible, inside these fences. 

          As always, we found ourselves opening the door to new kids just hours after we had shut it behind our old ones. VR and Baby GL are now ours. They spent a week in House G, waiting for a family of five siblings down the street to return home. We had bets taken on which house VR and GL would end up in. For no particular reason other than riding atop very, very high horses, some higher-ups decided to place them in our house. In truth, they probably would have done better in House H, where a certain little boy would have taken VR under his wing. D never does very well with younger kids. She gets defensive about her home, about our attention, and she regresses. Fits come easier and last longer. Bad behavior is mimicked. Her fuse gets cut much, much shorter. But nobody asked our opinions, so we sewed our mouths shut.

          It's a frustrating idea, honestly. Perhaps I haven't spent enough time in the real world. Perhaps I don't have enough work experience. The daycare I used to work at was small enough that every opinion was easily considered. I can't seem to understand why that wouldn't be a goal here, too. Nobody has ever asked us what we thought of new arrangements. We know our kids best of all. We know what foods we can push them to try, and which ones will most likely end up splattered on our shirts. We know what time they'll hit a wall if they miss nap. We know what they'll cook for us time and time again in the play kitchen. D has been a constant in our home for nearly five months now. She's made new friends with every kid we've welcomed, and she's had to say those same goodbyes. So I still cannot understand why nobody even bothers to ask what we think. Even if our words are outright ignored, I think it would sting a bit less than not being heard at all. 

         My voice feels even smaller since we've gotten VR. We know very little about his story, but we do know him. His almond eyes slant upwards and his nose is so flat that it can't hold up the sunglasses he's so captivated with wearing. When he gets excited or angry - or any emotion apart from complacency - his entire body shakes. The scrawny muscles on his little frame bunch up with tension, and I can see the tips of his fingers begin to tremble. His jaw hangs open, drool stringing from his chin. He has a tough time making connections, with both people and reality. There are no attempts at words, no tries to mimic us. He doesn't point to the bright balloons or shimmering fish in the books we read. He spends ten straight minutes turning the same doll over in his hands, or watching how the ceiling slopes downward in the toy closet under the stairs. 

          But he is incredibly sweet. He sticks his palm to my lips anytime I admonish him or explain a rule. He loves flipping headfirst over my legs and then laughing uncontrollably while I tickle his outstretched arms. He sleeps solidly through both naptime and the night, and eats so tidily at the table that it's clear he doesn't want to waste the food. I do love him. 

          His sister - I haven't gotten there yet. She is seven months old and an inescapable terror. She spends most of her waking moments with her mouth wide open, screaming like some creature from the ninth circle of hell. There is no stopping the noise. It has become so constant that we now simply talk over it. Background music.

          I realize now that I have never tried singing to Baby GL. That truth sort of pains me. I have sung to every kid who has come to us, whether screaming or sleeping. Not Baby GL, though. After knowing the intense physical pain that drew out Baby GB's screams, her needless wails inspire little sympathy, and only draw out all the short fuses from my burning, crackling patience. The shrill howls drive out any affection or warmth, so I just end up feeding, bathing, changing her. I haven't moved beyond the basics. Every once in a while, there's a few moments where she is content, and my heart softens a bit. I think we're on our way somewhere - but it's definitely at the end of a stretching and bumpy road.

         Again, the most frustrating part is that nobody will listen to us. They dropped these two tiny souls at our door and thanked God they didn't live at House D themselves. It has me disappointed with this place, with the people who make decisions without stepping out from behind their desks. The words and orders spill from their mouths while their hands clamp down hard over their ears. So we roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty, our pleading voices morphing into white noise. 

          I hope I am never the sort of leader who climbs so far into the clouds that I cannot see my own feet planted firmly on the ground, or make out the rings in my tree trunk legs that show both the harsh and happy seasons I've weathered. I hope I always have the harvested fields and the bare bones of new buildings and the worn roads in my view - I never want to lose sight of the work that built me up. It must be a pity, to have your head floating so high that there's nobody up there to keep you company.

          That is a small solace to me, I think. Our voices may be falling on deaf ears, but we still haven't stopped talking. Hopefully soon, a few of those words will seep in through the cracks between their fingers, clasped so tightly over their ears. Until then, we will keep patching together the new scraps of our odd little family.