My Invisible Children

With the possibility (let’s be honest, probability) of the children leaving, I’ve had this inner desire to make them more real to the outside world as if that would somehow prove they were truly part of our family, part of our lives… And maybe by validating their roles in our family, it’ll also give me permission to grieve their potential (probable) loss.

Right now, they’re my invisible children.  Every post I’ve shared over the past year and a half is only part of the picture.  Each of those memories has a child strategically cropped out or a story rewritten so that it makes sense with just my biological son.  There are many more stories we don’t verbalize, aside from jotting them down in their monthly reports to our caseworker.  When my friends are posting videos of their children taking their first steps, I want to jump in with excitement- “Mine too; you have to check out this video!”  Instead, I wait a few weeks, use professional wording to document it, and send it off in a confidential email.  Don’t get me wrong, I value their privacy and understand the need for it, but some days you just want the world to share in their joys and accomplishments.  And some days, you just want the kids to feel real.

Last night, I joined some other moms in a monthly fellowship group.  We had a great time talking about life and our struggles and successes as parents.  Part of the evening was making a craft- a beautiful wire and bead necklace.  The instructions were to choose a bead for each one of your children, and once you put it all together, the beads appeared to be tiny little eggs resting in a wire nest.  I sat there conflicted.  I have one biological child and two foster children.  I could make a necklace with 3 eggs… but two of those aren’t my children, no matter how I feel about them.  Besides, if I fudged it to include them, would I include every foster child who’s ever been in my home?  That might get a little ridiculous.

I ended up stringing my singular bead onto my wire and wrapping it around to form my nest.  Then I brought the necklace home and cried as I held it out for my husband to see.  “I only have one,” I told him, “I only have one egg in my nest…  It’s so empty.”  For the first time since we heard the news the kids may be leaving, it felt real.  My kids, who seem invisible and imaginary to the outside world, are really leaving.  My son will be an only child.  I will be the mother of an only child.  I will wear my necklace, and no one will be the wiser.

This fostering journey is lonely.  At least one friend has mentioned that this is what I signed up for.  Yes, it’s true.  When I said yes to the kids, it came with a future goodbye.  I’d wager to guess that we live that reality constantly and daily in a way you can’t grasp because all you see is my invisible children.  They’re impersonal to you; you don’t see them for who they are.

I understand that I have no claim over them, but please, for the love of God, allow me to grieve them if/when the time comes.  And allow me to do that for as long as I need to and as hard as I need to.  Don’t give me general, impersonal advice as if I raised nameless, faceless representations of life in the system.  As little as you may know about them, they are so much more than that.  Never forget that these children are actual lives… I know I won’t.