My Pleasure

Our littlest left for a family visit last Wednesday. On Saturday I answered a phone call from the County Department of Children and Youth Services. A report had been made alleging that I had harmed Our Littlest. In between sighs and eye rolls, and then some nervous laughter, I explained that OT had not been in my care for the past three days and that when I dropped him off on Wednesday he had a scab on his elbow. After a bit more conversation the worker discovered that she would not be able to investigate the case because our agency contracts with her agency and so a 'conflict of interest' comes into question. The worker thanked me for my time and said she would pass the report back to be given to the regional state office for investigation.

I hopefully waited for a call from that agency, but no call came that evening. Or the next day.

While I was waiting for that phone call, another call came through on Sunday morning. Our agency was told that OT could not return to our home following his visit later on Sunday, but would have to go to a respite foster home for the duration of the investigation. An investigation which as I far as I knew hadn't even begun.

Crazy. OT was being disrupted due to false allegations that hadn't been addressed yet.

Thankfully he was able to go to another family where we knew he would be safe and well cared for.

Finally at mid-day on Monday the investigative worker called and scheduled to come to our home on Tuesday - the day of the predicted epic snowstorm. On Tuesday he scheduled to come on Thursday. Then on Thursday, since he hadn't yet been able to dig out his car, he scheduled to come on Friday. That is tomorrow.

Since this was our third conversation, I felt comfortable enough to keep him on the phone with some questions.

Had he seen OT?  - Yes, on Sunday.

Was OT okay? -  Yes, in the situation in which I saw him.

How long would it take to complete the investigation?  - I have sixty days to complete it.

You realize that that is ridiculous since everyone knows the allegations are false?  - That is how long I have. When I get a case that appears to be simple to close, I work on it first to get it off of my desk.

His last statement gave me some hope.

I hadn't planned to stop and write until the investigation is over.

I had thought that this time would be different since I know how ridiculous the allegations are this time around. The report did not match the actual situation. The child had a scab.

This parent is desperate to have their children. This parent does not like me because I am the wrong color. This parent was seeking revenge for an action by the agency. This parent seems to think that if the foster parent can be seen as unfit, then a judge will send the child back to the birth parent.

Meanwhile OT is probably wondering why he is not home. He might be scared or confused. This situation definitely works against the stability and consistency we are trying to build and maintain in his little life. How is this parent demonstrating the capacity to be a good parent?   A stable parent? A loving, compassionate parent?

I have gone out of my way to be in communication with the agency and OT's attorney every day. Just so they don't forget I'm here... and he's not. Just so someone in this big, overworked, under-staffed system remembers that there are actual children involved and foster parents who lose sleep over them.

The silence from the placing agency is astounding. Just as it's been for the past year of this placement. Case workers have changed three times, with the most recent being right before this incident. This newest worker seems to understand after just a week that something is seriously wrong with this case. She asked me, "Who gave the birth parent all this power? Whatever they want they get? Why are there these unsupervised weekend visits? Who is following up?" My answer, "Your agency."

The agency has allowed this parent to bully their workers - calling the emergency number every weekend multiple times, texting a worker up to fifty times a week, complaining to the workers about how I cut OT's hair (which I haven't cut, ever) and other trivial - and usually untrue - matters.The foster parents have also been bullied; OT has a sister with another foster family - we've been told to wait thirty to forty-five minutes to meet for a visit, we've been yelled at and degraded. When we asked to have an agency worker available at the visit transfers, we've been denied. This parent gets to say and do whatever they want with no accountability.

And now this. Now my character and parenting are being called into question by this person. Now OT's life is in confusion. Now another foster family - who was given little information - is being expected to step into this mess. 

Yesterday I sent an email to the case worker, the supervisor, the supervisor's supervisor, and the person above that. In it I stated that this case has not been managed well and that this birth parent has been given permission to wield all sorts of crazy power, now manifested in these lies of a child abuse report against me. I requested that OT quickly be returned to our home and that going forward unquestionable boundaries would be in place to ensure the stability of these children and the safety of the foster families.

I ended by saying that it is our pleasure to continue to care for OT. And it is. In the waiting and frustration and disrespect and questioning and scariness and uncertainty... it is my pleasure.

Best Laid Plans

Life with teenagers.

Laughter, sadness, joking (sometimes turning ugly), questions, answers (sometimes turning ugly), debates, arguments, accomplishments, privileges, technology, discipline... and that was just this morning - or at least it feels like it most mornings.

We are less than a month away from having our last "permanent" kiddo round the corner to thirteen, which will bring the grand total of teenagers in the house to six. Lots of new emotions, strange smells, and uncharted territory. It keeps a mom on her toes and awake most of some nights, thinking through ways to help navigate these incredible young people through this crazy world.

Navigate. That's the word I've landed on. For some time the word had been "battle," because honestly, that's how it plays out in many situations. A battle against my kids, yes, occasionally; but more often a battle FOR my  kids against everything and everyone who does not love and want the best for them as deeply and passionately as I do.  And sometimes it's a battle against myself to want to exert my rightfully earned mom-power and ultimate control - ha! - clearly faulty thinking...

This morning one of the kids came to me with a request which due strictly to time constraints, I denied. It was a reasonable request, but just couldn't be honored in the 23 minutes before the bus came. This child - who lately has done a fabulous job of taking "no" as an answer - compliantly returned (I thought) to the task of getting ready for school. Some minutes later this child appeared to me in the hallway dressed in pajamas and announced, "I am not going to school today." 
When I inquired as to why, the answer was, "I just don't want to go. Call me out sick."
"Are you sick?" I asked.
"No. But I am not going."

Navigation mode. It looks like this: I walked away.

Within minutes my child - still in pajamas - found me in the kitchen.
"Can you drive me to school?"
" Why do I need to drive you? You have time to catch the bus."
"I don't want to ride the bus because I don't want to go to school. I don't want to see anyone."
I dropped my guard and answered, "Well, you don't have to want to go, or have to want to see anyone. But you do need to get an education." Left myself wide open there -
"I don't NEED an education! If you don't drive me to school, I'm not going." Stomp, stomp, stomp, SLAM!

Twelve minutes until the bus came. I began to tackle the mountain of crusty pots, pans, and baking sheets in the sink to keep my hands as busy as my brain. This child is blessed with overwhelming tenacity and determination. I had to stick to my navigation plan of "no questions; no answers." But what if that wasn't enough? What if this child really did miss the bus? There were plans for my day, appointments to keep and errands to run. Leaving this child at home alone was not an option. Getting this child to agree to get into the car was something I couldn't envision. Did I have time to call a babysitter? Who would I feel comfortable enough to put in that position? Should I just compromise and drive to school and come up with a creative consequence later? What is REALLY going on?

As I scrubbed and thought and watched the clock, other kids called, "Bye, Mom!" as they headed to the bus stop. I'd better have a plan in place.

Three minutes later this child came downstairs, dressed coat to sneakers, and said,
"The bus has passed. You need to drive me to school." No answer.
"If I leave now, the bus will be gone already." No answer.
"If I miss the bus then I'll just walk to my friend's house." No answer.
"And I know that will be skipping school." No answer.
"I don't want to go to school." No answer.

A slow, sneaker-dragging thirty seconds later, I heard the back door open and then slam shut. I hoped that meant what I thought it meant, but waited for an explosion back into the kitchen. It didn't come. And fifteen minutes later, all was still quiet. And forty minutes later there was no call from the school reporting my child absent.

Plan unnecessary. Navigation successful.

How's the Weather

This morning I had the privilege of attending a meeting at the school. A privilege because many people who were invited attended out of sincere concern and support.

The past six weeks have been more of a challenge for this student and the teachers are feeling confused and discouraged. Methods that work for other students - positive peer pressure, pep talks, offers of extra credit, due date extensions, opportunities to advocate for assistance, and even failing grades - go unheeded by my student. The history teacher, who has assigned the standard research project, has gone to great lengths to "chunk" (per the IEP) what can appear to be an ominous and overwhelming task into smaller, manageable steps. This teacher has also provided personal cheering and prompting for my student, which this teacher had observed as having some positive influence with my student only to be faced with the harsh reality that my student hadn't actually done ANY of the work toward completion of this major project which is due tomorrow.

An email from this teacher earlier in the week afforded me the opportunity to shed some light on my student's life situation. In my email response I briefly assured this teacher that the situation with this project was not unexpected or unprecedented. Today I continued in that vein of conversation.

Of the six teachers seated at the table, only one of them was aware of my student's history of trauma. And I'm honestly not sure how I feel about that. My student's history is THEIR history and, unless my student chooses to share it, is personal and confidential. But when teachers are genuinely confused and concerned, and openly express their distress - one of them used the word "distressed" - then it seems that sharing my student's history, or at least the parts that directly impact the current situation, is helpful and right.

So I began my tired old speech about trauma and how it can affect the brain, and how unless the trauma is processed the child remains "stuck" - emotionally, intellectually, socially, academically, functionally - at a much younger age, often at the age when the trauma occurred. One of the teachers remarked, "Fascinating. I never even considered that." I continued to explain that my student has not taken advantage of the many attempts at various types of therapy and in fact adamantly refuses to participate in any activity or situation that might require even touching upon the past trauma.

One teacher remarked, "What frustrates me is - I was very firm and called your student out for lying about an assignment. It was a very heated discussion. Your student refused to speak to me; they just stood and stared at me. But a short time later when I passed your student in the hallway, they called my name, smiled, and waved at me."

What a great comment to springboard into some information about attachment issues. I explained that my student can charm the pants off of anyone, unless or until that someone places expectations on my student. Part of what seems to be happening these past six weeks is that teachers are no longer falling for the charm AND the expectations have ramped up. This research project is something that my student has been vocally protesting against for weeks at home: "I'm not DOING this. No one can make me. I don't CARE if I fail. I hope I fail." Because if my student fails, it will not be their fault; it will be the fault of the library being closed, the fault of the teacher not telling them what to do, the fault of the sister for interrupting, the fault of the radio being too loud, the fault of the computer 'glitching.' Kids with attachment issues do not attach. They fight against attaching - it's scary and it can't be trusted.

My student is not attached at home. What appears to people in the community as friendly charm, is really just superficial nice-ness that my student can pull off because there are no expectations. My student will hug a dozen people at church, but not have any meaningful conversations - that would require an uncomfortable level of trust.

At home we work on building trust. And the vicious hamster-wheel-like trust cycle has become predictable: just the time my student builds up enough trust to be out of our sight, someone gets hurt, something goes missing, or there is destruction of property. It's too scary to trust, so my student just refuses to take responsibility. And without responsibility, there are few privileges. And without privileges, life can be pretty miserable. And if life is miserable, my student can blame mom and dad. And blaming mom and dad does not promote attachment because we can't be trusted.

It's exhausting to live this way. It's exhausting to explain that we live this way. It's exhausting to help teachers understand that no amount of them bending over backwards and giving my student the benefit of every doubt will result in sudden changed behavior. It's exhausting to try and try again and believe that THIS time things will be different, that THIS time my student will feel safe enough to trust.

This evening my student and I were occupying the same space doing our own things. It's a simple, non-threatening way to build attachment. I was intentionally silent, just letting my student know that we could be near each other. After ten minutes my student took a risk and said to me, "I wonder if we'll get snow this weekend." Because that's about as deep as my student can go with me - small talk, water cooler comments - the weather.

In Honor

On February 1, my mom flew into the arms of Jesus. She had battled cancer for about two years, and after three hospital stays in January, she made the choice to go into hospice care on January 27. We were blessed with four precious days in which we shared memories and laughter and lots of tears.

Today we celebrated her life well lived and her reward of eternal life. This is what I shared in honor of my precious mom.

As we were sitting around my mom’s bed on Tuesday morning, I got to thinking about how special my mom was and in how many ways. Here’s what I told her:

“So mom, I’ve been sitting here with all of us and thinking about how incredibly special you are; so special that there is no one else like you and that in order for your legacy to continue you needed five children. You have given each of the five of us something special of yourself. Here is what I see.

I’ll start with Linda since she’s the youngest and I usually start with myself. Linda is like you in the way that she is able to just roll along with the tides of life. Like you, she goes where she needs to go and does what needs to be done. You became a pastor’s wife and made a home wherever God led you and dad. And it was a happy and warm and safe home. Linda and Juan lived in the city, because that’s what needed to be done. She doesn’t complain or draw attention; she just quietly goes about doing what is needed. That’s you mom.

John is strong and steady. He works in the medical field like you where that kind of steady strength is necessary. But you and he are both strong and steady in the course of life. There’s not a lot of emotional drama or second guessing. Although dad was always the up-front pastor, you were serving along beside him. You were strong and steady in the course that God laid out for you. John is like you as he lives his life in all areas as a steadfast and dependable source of strength.

Karen got your amazing creativity; she is able to make something out of nothing – just like you. You made beautiful quilts out of scraps of fabric and lovely blankets from bits of yarn. You made our clothes and doll’s clothes and Barbie doll clothes with those tiny little buttons.  In the past several years you have learned to crochet and knit and you’ve used those skills to make blankets from odds and ends of yarn to share with the people in nursing care. Karen’s hand-made cards and scrapbooks are works of art. She is so creative, just like you.

Donna is fair and just. All week she has been making sure that everyone has coffee. When we were kids she made sure we all got a candy bar out of the pack. She likes to make sure that everyone is okay and taken care of. That’s you mom. You are always looking out for others, making sure that everyone is treated fairly. The reason we could engage in our silly, ongoing banter about who was your favorite child was because we all knew that we were each your favorite.

And me, I got your love for children. I just love kids. Just like you. You were a foster mom and now so am I. I never really wanted to be anything except a mom and I expect that’s because you made it look so wonderful. And you have taught so many children about the love of Jesus by living the love of Jesus. Each child knew that you valued them.”

Karen reminded me that there was one gift that you gave to each of us – the desire to serve. We watched you, mom. We saw you serve our family and love us, we saw you serve the church family, we saw you serve in your job as a nurse, we saw you love on the kids in your day care. We knew how much you loved dad. And so we each serve our own families, and churches. Some of us serve in our occupations. We serve our in communities and in missions. Just like you.

Thank you for these gifts, mom. We promise to use them wisely in honor of you.

The End

All kids in foster care are traumatized.
Some before birth due to poor prenatal care, domestic violence, substance use and abuse. Some after birth - abandonment, abuse. All suffer from the trauma of the loss of their birth families - for however short a time. Some are more resilient, some seem virtually unscathed. But it's there. Trauma. And it manifests in as many different ways as there are different kids. And it's there for a lifetime. Some process and manage and develop amazing coping abilities. And hope.

There is always hope.

Earlier today I discovered that One Kid had been destructive. A Christmas gift had been dismantled, destroyed, and hidden. The value of the item was not the issue - we've learned the hard way to thoughtfully and carefully allow OK to have a few nice things only when fully supervised. Along with routine checks of OK's bedroom, back pack, coat pockets, laundry hamper, trashcan - of which OK is fully aware - this plan has been somewhat successful, and has led to incremental increases in trust.

Finding the ruined gift today sends us back to ground zero with trust. And I knew that a hard conversation was going to have to be had. And without fail this type of conversation has led to further break-downs in our always tenuous relationship. So after I confirmed with Stan that we needed to plan for a private conversation with OK, my insides began to react - knotted stomach, achy heart, pounding head, racing mind... fight or flight.

To fight FOR - not against - OK.

To fight FOR our relationship.

To fight FOR an understanding of trust.

To fight FOR my child to process the trauma and be able to move ahead with life.

But flight seems so much easier. Just ignore it, throw it away. If I don't mention it, OK never will either. We stay out of each other's way; keep each other at arm's length; avoid eye contact and simple conversation. I'm far from proud to admit that this is sometimes what I've chosen. Sometimes because OK only gets defensive and upset and we end up going nowhere anyway. But most times because I am exhausted and weary of riding this infernal hamster wheel of excuses and blame and the victim mentality.

But today I chose fight. I had committed with Stan and then I went and put it on Facebook - as more of an accountability check for me than for anything else.

So we closed ourselves in a room for twenty minutes. I didn't ask questions. I simply showed and stated what I had found. I said that there would be a consequence, but that I was honestly at a loss and that we would need time to think about it. I said that my feelings were hurt that a gift that we had given OK had been treated with such disregard. I reminded OK that I had once learned at a training - and it made good sense to me and helped me in these situations and so I tend to bring it up frequently - that whatever I, as the parent, am feeling, my child is probably feeling that same way. So I said I was feeling confused and lost about what had happened and what to do next. I asked OK if that was true for them. "Yes, I guess so."

And then we talked. It was slow and awkward and halting. We heard that OK was upset about people making fun of them at school. We talked about stupid kids saying stupid things and having no control over that; but the power we have in taking control of how we react. We talked about how people - OK - who suffer severe trauma are stuck with all those thoughts and memories and feelings until they decide to take control and process and move past those hard and horrible things.

These were all things that I had said before. Today OK seemed to hear them, seemed to understand that we say these things because we care. Today there was conversation - just little bits of it - instead of just me talking.

My last question, "I'm going out on a limb here.... would you like a hug?" Was met with OK immediately coming into my arms and then Stan's and saying, "I KNOW you guys love me."

This really happened. It's really never happened before. I am admittedly in a bit of shock. Not quite sure how to proceed, because usually I'd be sitting here writing out my confusion and frustration at how much I don't know how to help or reach OK... and then never posting it because it's embarrassing to put us all out there, and not at all encouraging to families who may be considering foster care or adoption. It doesn't make our family look good.

Thank you to those of you who supported me with that Facebook post. I know you were praying and I want you to know that God heard and answered. I am grateful. I am excited to see if this takes us further along the journey of healing with OK.

This is the end.... for this time....

Giving Back

Wednesday, February 27, 2013 was the first time I met my son. I didn't know he was my son; I had been led to believe that he would not become my son. But I'll let you in on a little something: EVERYTIME a child comes into our home one of my first thoughts is, "Could this be my next son or daughter? Will this one stay forever?"

When the phone rang that afternoon and we were asked to take a placement, the immediate answer was yes. And then we asked the necessary questions: boy or girl (so we could shuffle bedrooms as needed), age (so we could run out to buy diapers and formula if needed), any idea of the length of the placement.

Late that evening eleven year old MD was dropped off with just an extra outfit in a duffle bag. The first two questions were answered. The third answer was vague - as usual, but fairly definite - a court hearing was scheduled for the following Monday and it was presumed that the family would be reunified at that time.

Five days. MD bunked in one of the other boys' rooms on a trundle bed - which was an acceptable situation for a short-term placement and didn't necessitate a bedroom shuffle. The next day we went shopping for some basics to make life more comfortable for the next five days.

Monday came and with it another phone call. Reunification was denied. The placement would continue. Visits with birth mom were scheduled. We made an appointment with the school district for enrollment. We shuffled bedrooms, slid the trundle bed away, pulled out a dresser and filled it with more clothing.

During the next months Stan and I would occasionally stop and look at each other to say, "Wonder when it's all going to hit the fan with this one..." And then months became a year and more, and this child continued to thrive. And nothing ever hit any fan.

Teachers, neighbors, friends from church all described him the same way - respectful, humble, polite, kind, mature, responsible. He worked hard to overcome educational deficits. He was extremely teachable; and also loved being a teacher and coach. He excelled in art and athletics. And still the other shoe... heck, the first shoe, never dropped. No bumps in the road. Every hurdle taken in beautiful stride.

Visits with birth mom continued consistently for about eight months. Then a period of silence; mom was unavailable, case workers could not find her, messages were unanswered, visits came to a halt. Older birth siblings offered support - maybe one of them would be a placement resource if mom did not resurface. A few quick starts and then dead ends. None of the adult siblings were approved resources.

A few months later, birth mom contacted the agency and scheduled visits. Sometimes she confirmed, sometimes she didn't. Sometimes she confirmed - so we would drive to the agency - and then didn't show up. It was hard to watch my (yet-to-be) son deal with the inconsistency and uncertainty of his family's situation.

Due to his age and the fact that he was not a "troubled" child, the city agency took it's time in changing his placement goal from reunification to adoption or PLC (permanent legal custody) - which is almost like adoption but does not require termination of the rights of the birth parents and is given as an option in the case of older children. So it was that after twenty-eight months in foster care, a judge decided that it was time to move toward permanency.

The case worker presented MD with a choice: he could either remain in our home permanently, or he could request that a search be made for an alternative placement - another family. I was there when that discussion took place, I listened quietly - on the outside; on the inside my heart was crying out to him, "Please choose us." - as the question was asked. His answer was something like, "Why would I want to move now?" I spoke then and affirmed his answer and also vehemently let him and the case worker know that we did not want him to move. I remember saying that I had always considered him my son; and that even if he had chosen to move away, I would still think of him as my son.

On October 19, 2016 - three years, seven months, three weeks, and one day from our first meeting - we were given Permanent Legal Custody of our son. He seemed surprised to see my tears during the court hearing.

The final step for us was to have MD dedicated. Some churches baptize or christen; we dedicate - give our children back to God. We've dedicated each of our kids when they've become legally ours - some as infants, some as toddlers, some as young children. MD tipped the scale age and height-wise. At fifteen years old and almost six feet tall, this was going to be something special.

In explaining the idea of dedication to a friend, MD overheard me use the phrase "give back." He chimed right in and said, "You're going to give me back??" He was kind of kidding and so I was able to answer lightly but seriously, "I will never give you back. You are mine forever." He and my friend understood the symbolism of dedication, and also the importance that Stan and I feel as we are called to raise our children with the support of our God and our church family.

I realize that I have really given MD back, though. God gave him to us. Just as God gave us our children by birth, God has blessed us with children through adoption. And just as God blesses us with material possessions and we are called to be good stewards of all we are given, we are tasked with being good stewards of our children; of our relationships with them, of what and how we teach them, of how we encourage them to live right lives, and nurture them in their strengths and support them in their weaknesses. That is a tall order and it is rather freeing to know that God is doing all that work through us.

On December 11, 2016 we gave MD back to God. We are endlessly grateful that we have been chosen to be his parents - for now, for as long as God will let us do the job. And there were tears that day, too. I think there will always be tears for me in the giving back.

The Same Thing... But Different

A little over a year ago we met a little boy that a friend - another foster mama - was caring for. At two months old he had suffered some sort of "injury" that resulted in brain and head trauma, which required him to have a shunt placed in his skull to alleviate fluid and pressure - his head was abnormally large and misshapen. His vision was also impaired and there was concern regarding overall development.

At nine months old this baby was barely able to sit upright due to the size of his head; he began to move himself by scooting across the floor in a sitting position because he couldn't get into a crawling position. Our friend (his foster mom) was taking him to various specialists' appointments and arranging for therapies all while taking fabulous care of him.

During this time, both birth parents were granted visits with this baby even though no one was forthcoming regarding the details of his "injury" and the agency was not able to piece together exactly what had happened. Both parents were given goals to complete in order to have the baby reunified with them. There was also a possibility that the baby would not be reunified, but rather could be adopted by his foster mother.

Eventually the placing agency became very difficult to work with - visits were not scheduled, were rescheduled, or one party or another was misinformed or late to the visit. The worker became critical of, and the birth parents were at times aggressive with, our friend. It also became more apparent that the placement would not end in adoption - which meant a continued and probably a long-term working relationship with the birth parents and the placing agency; a situation which became overwhelming for our friend.

At our foster parent support group meeting in February, we celebrated this little guy's first birthday with smiles and cheers. And then we cried and prayed together as we listened to our friend explain through tears that notice had been given that the little boy would need to be moved to another foster home.

In February we were caring for ten children ages 19, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 7, and 5. Two days later we called our agency and asked if we could be considered a placement option for this little boy. We knew him - his needs, his therapy schedule, about his doctor's appointments. We knew about his case - the goal of reunification, the frustration of miscommunication with the placing agency, the inconsistency of the visitation schedule. We knew that it was a long shot.

After a month of interviews and paperwork this little boy was placed in our home.

The therapies and doctor's appointments continued; as did the miscommunication and frustration of working with the placing agency. Visits continued to be inconsistent and the placement goal of reunification seemed far-off. In fact, several months ago the child advocate asked if we would consider being a pre-adoptive resource if reunification ceased to be an option.

In October a new case worker was assigned and the court got more involved - apparently it was clear to all parties that the mishandling of the case was working against the goal of reunification. Visits - the schedule and the specifics of who, where, and when - were court ordered; something we had never heard of. At that time we were told that on December 1 the case was going to be heard by a different judge - a judge who knew nothing about the case and was going to bring an unbiased perspective about the direction of the case. We were told that the outcome of this court hearing would result in no change with visitation or with the goals for the parents, but rather would give a point for moving forward.

Yesterday following that court hearing the case worker sent a message. The message was that visits were going to increase - drastically. Instead of dad having a visit during the day, visits would be for the entire weekend - two overnights. When I questioned the worker about how we would schedule (or reschedule) the visit over Christmas weekend, the response was that dad would have his son from Friday to Monday - for Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day; for three nights.

It felt like a sucker punch.

I knew that families were usually reunified after three or so weekend visits. I knew that the goal was reunification. I knew that this little boy was only mine for a short time. I knew that dad had been doing all that was required. I knew that this family was supposed to be together.

I also knew that I had witnessed a miracle in this little boy's development - in August he tested out of all his Early Intervention therapies. I was with him when he had surgery in June to correct his vision - surgery which resulted in the ophthalmologist's amazement over how well this little boy healed and recovered. I was there for his first steps and his first word, "ball."

I had been told that NOTHING was going to change on December 1. I had hung my hat on that. Nothing happens December 1, then three months until the next court date. Then maybe reunification. We would celebrate Christmas and his second birthday together.

That was what I was thinking.

You'd think that by now - seventeen years and forty-eight children later - I'd have caught on that just when I have my head wrapped around what is going to happen, what I expect to happen, THAT is when the unexpected happens. That by now I'd remember to save back just a tiny sliver of my heart for myself so that when each child leaves, my heart doesn't break. That by now my head would override my heart and I would realize that foster parenting is temporary, it's supposed to be temporary. That we had done our "job."

I try not to be selfish. I am truly happy for this little boy and his family; that the system worked the way it was supposed to, that he will grow up with his dad and that he is young enough to not remember being in foster care.

Every time I try not to be selfish and I think, "maybe this is the last time."

But it's not the last time.

It's just different.