FOSTER PARENTING BOOK: November 2005

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THIS IS AN ESSAY I WON A FEW AWARDS FOR

They come into my home frail and broken. They are afraid of every quick movement and flinch when I reach to brush their brow. The tears well up in my eyes and I have to blink them away. Some are going through withdrawals from their mothers addictions. They cry all night they cry all day. I rock them and hold then and sing to them quietly, praying their pain will go away. When they quiet down I wipe their tears away only to feel my own have started to fall down my face. Somehow I make it through these hard times and after these first trials, I notice that when I look in their eyes someone is looking back at me. I teach them touch is good and closeness is nice. It's OK to love and be loved back. I try to keep them well, and nurse them when they're sick.I clean their messes, wipe their faces and pick them up when they fall. I watch them learn to crawl, then walk, and learn to call me mommy.I tuck them into bed and pray for the best in their lives. I have been on a fast-moving emotional roller-coaster ride up one hill and down two valleys. Just when I think it's time to end the ride, they add more tracks, then comes the bumpy finish. Hang on for the finale! I pack up their things, never to forget their favorite toy. I make sure I have every last shirt and sock. The tears seem to sneak up on me when they're wanted the least. I brush then away hoping nobody sees. That final hour is coming up fast and I know the best thing for everyone is for me to hold back my tears. The worker shows up and I think my life is ending. I kiss them good-bye, praying God's will be done. My arms are handing them over,, my heart is sucking them back. They drive away and I let my tears fall. I think I will drowned in my own tears. A day or so later I dry my eyes and notice a hole has been burned through my heart. I still use too many noodles and set too many places at the dinner table. I look behind me to finish my count, only to be reminded there's one less of us now. Why do I do this I ask myself, Then I remember what they were like way back then. I think the pain in my heart could never go away. Why do I do this I ask myself again. The phone rings. There's a worker on the other end, "We have another one." ,,,,,,,,,, "Bring him on in."

FOSTER PARENTING BOOK

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

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THIS IS AN ESSAY I WON A FEW AWARDS FOR

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