Everything's been building up, leading to this day - this hard, happy, sad day. So much work, love, energy, trust; again the questions: was it worth it? did it matter? will any of it stick?
Eleven months after her arrival, Little Sweetheart's time in our home ended. And her life with her birth family began, continued; all the visits, paperwork, county protocol, and finally the judge finalizing what we all knew was coming.
While my head understands - yet again - that children need primarily to be safe, my heart aches with the knowledge that children NEED and deserve so much more. LS needs and deserves to be read to every day and have someone cheer her on as she becomes a reader; to have kisses and hugs good-night and reassurrance that we will "see each other in the morning"; clear and consistent boundaries and consequences; a calm and peaceful haven where love is unconditional.
Just from plain old-fashioned observation and a mother's intuition, our LS has entered a place where some of those needs will not be met all the time; some of them rarely at all. Her birth family is not "bad", they are not unfit or unkind; in fact, a common statement by case workers, therapists, and me has been, "He (birth dad) is a really nice guy."
From the beginning, there have been no concerns regarding housing, employment, or safety; some of the biggest hurdles for many familes whose children are in the system. These should be reasons to feel positive about the situation instead of lead to uncertainty and questions: Why, if things were so stable, did it take eight months to have overnight visits? Why, if these people are responsible and dependable, was paperwork incomplete or overdue? Why, if LS was really wanted, were phone calls not returned?
The day before Thanksgiving, a rainy, dreary day, some of the kids went along to take LS home. Having not been to the house, and being unsure of what the situation might be, the kids said their good-byes on the sidewalk by the car. LS ran ahead as MD and I carried some boxes a few houses down and followed her up onto the front porch where two women - one her step-mother - stood smoking. Neither one greeted LS and only spoke to me when I asked where we should put the boxes: "Go ahead in and put them by the front door." LS had already found a seat on the sofa in front of the television and seemed not to notice the other people in the house; which made sense because no one seemed to notice her. Not one person greeted her by name or welcomed her home.
With another load of boxes to retrieve, we went out the front door onto the porch where the women continued to smoke and make no move to go inside with LS.
MD stayed at the car while I took the last load, this time into the house without stopping to try to talk with her step-mother. LS remained seated alone on the sofa, the television seemingly the only company despite random people walking through the house, one of which - a woman who didn't address LS directly, but looked at her and then me and then the boxes by the door - said, "Well, I guess they were really tired of you, they even dropped off all your stuff!"
This person might have been someone LS knew, they might have had a conversation while I was bringing boxes, the woman might have been kidding, LS might not have heard her comment. In that instant, none of that registered or even if it had, was significant. In that instant LS was still mine, her heart was mine to protect.
Before my emotions unraveled, I called LS over to where I was standing by the front door. We got eye-to-eye. We hugged, tight. We kissed, hard. We said a prayer and said good-bye.
I left the house, muttered "Happy Thanksgiving" to the two women still smoking on the porch and pulled it together as I walked to the car where five more of my precious kids were waiting. My kids, MY kids - none of which I would ever choose to leave in such a situation, in a place that appeared clean and safe but felt so cold and lonely. In a place where I had no choice but to leave our LS.
