I know, on some level, that it has been half a year since I
last called a child my own. It’s been half a year since I got spit up on, or
accidentally tasted baby food that got splattered on my face. Half a year since
I changed diapers and sang the ABC’s while washing hands. It’s been half a year
since five little babies tore our house apart when the new foster parents tried
to take over their care, calming instantly if and, ultimately when, I would step
in again. Half a year should be enough time for broken hearts to begin to heal,
and for me to move forward – remembering fondly, but no longer achingly. It
should be. But half a year isn’t long enough a time for me to forget how our
little two year old would look me straight in the eye with a toy xylophone in
his hand, and chuck it against the wall, barely missing his sister. Waiting for
me to react. Wanting me to react. Wanting me to be his parent again, and
reaffirm that another adult wasn’t going to let him down. Six months isn’t long
enough for me to forget the last time that I sang my kids a lullaby, and told
them that it was my time to go but that I would still love them, watching
helplessly as they dissolved into tears and sobs before crying myself. Because
I knew that they wouldn’t understand that I didn’t want to leave them. Half a year isn’t long enough for me to forget
what the weight of a slumbering infant felt like on my chest at 4 am. I still
remember with perfect clarity each and every one of my goodbyes, even if some
of my kids’ individual nuances are now getting blurred.
Is it healthy? To constantly re-watch videos of children
I’ve loved and lost, and will never see again? To tear up in the middle of a
lecture about umbilical hernias, remembering my babies who had them? To get
updates on some of my kids who are still in the neighborhood, and hear that the
little 14 month old that I fell in love with is now running and talking and I’m
not there. To hear that another child got glasses, and still another one is
going to get a (hopefully) happily ever after? To catch myself signing
“please”, or “more”, or “help” out of sheer muscle memory – months later? Healthy?
Maybe not. Probably not. Almost definitely not. But while I recognize the
necessity of moving on, I’m terrified of forgetting. I don’t want to forget
how, within a week of being placed with me, most of our kids already sought me
out as a safe place when they were scared. I don’t want to forget being awake at 6 am with our one early riser –
reading books and cuddling, and consciously feeling myself fall just a little
more in love with them – as if that were possible. I don’t want to forget
falling in love with each of my kids, and even if I wanted to, I can’t ever
forget how it felt to let them go.
The holidays are a time for family, togetherness, and love.
I was (and am) so thankful to be able to spend this year with my own family,
especially after missing all of it last year. And yet, a large part of
Thanksgiving day was spent on the verge of tears – remembering how my two year
old spilled her water all over me at Thanksgiving last year. Falling on the
floor with hysterical laughter, retelling the story in broken words to anyone
who would listen for weeks after. My walls aren’t covered with handprint
reindeer and footprint snowmen to get me in the spirit. And on Christmas
morning, it will be hard to stay present while remembering and quietly
celebrating the second birthday of one of our dearest little girls. Realizing
that it’s been almost a full year since we taught her to use sign language, and
crawl, and eventually walk. Since I chased her around the living room, or heard
her laugh. The significance of the 25th of December is forever
changed. I am forever changed.
So maybe it’s ok to Facebook creep and try and find my kids
somewhere out there. Maybe it’s ok to still feel a stab of pain and a prickle
of tears when I am remembering. It’s ok to feel torn between the past and the
present while I try to find that balance between remembering and letting go. In
the meanwhile, I will see the big scar on my elbow and laugh at what an idiot I
was to think I had the coordination to walk backwards with a child in my arms. That
same scar will make me so thankful that she was unscathed (though frightened)
from the fall. I will send my secret santa gift to my sister wife, and wait to
open mine until we set up a four-way skype. Doing our best to stay together
when we’re so far apart. When feeling sad and nostalgic, I will send them group
messages about milk poops (which are real things, by the way), and how one baby’s
diapers turned me off cookie dough for weeks (which I didn’t think was
possible, but…), and our kids’ fears of showers, and videos of chasing them
around the living room with the Christmas tree shining brightly in the
background. I will hear Silent Night on the radio and remember the serenity of
rocking my kids to sleep. I will finish my scrapbook (or, at least, work on
it), and gain some closure. I will turn in my paperwork to become a volunteer
at a local residential foster care facility in Grand Rapids. I will make a
count-down calendar until March, when I will see my housemates for a reunion.
I will be grateful for all that I had, as well as all that I
have. And I will remind myself that it’s a work in progress.
Happy second birthday little one, and Merry Christmas. I will always miss you.
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