A Week In Reverse

Foster care is a series of building walls, bargaining, and small concessions. It’s been four months of absence after nearly four years of raising the kids. In those four months, I’ve tried to build the walls- you’re a foster parent; they were never your children. It’s better that they’re gone. Raising two kids is easier than raising four. Then on days when I get photo notifications of four blissfully happy children sitting on the front porch last summer, the bargaining kicks in. Lord, intervene like you used to. Please bring us back together. Please. Somehow. Just let us be a family again. But when the phone doesn’t ring and the emotion of that moment subsides, the small concession enters- Okay, just for today then. Just for today, I’ll remember them as mine, my children. Today, I’m the mom of four beautiful children. Today, it doesn’t matter what we are, legally speaking; they’re my family.

We had the kids for respite this week. It was only a few days, but I think I went through every possible emotion. The first night was a flurry of excited, chaotic energy. They wanted to go through every square inch of the house, taking note of all the things that were the same and different, which is… everything. We looked at all the things. After the room-by-room inventory, they bounced from toy to activity to basement to outside. I blinked and my living was upturned. It was just like the good ole days.

Walls. See how it’s easier without them? You don’t want this. It’s better now.

It didn’t take long for those icy walls to melt as laughter billowed from one of the bedrooms down the hall. It was a blissfully happy sound, something I hadn’t heard in months. It was the comfortable familiarity of siblings playing together- guards down, uninhibited cackling.

I could feel my eye start to twitch. Keep it down. Keep the walls up.

The evening was winding down, and we went through the bedtime routine of footed pajamas, a book that 2 out of 4 sat through, and a lengthy toothbrushing session. Covers around their chins, I moved bed to bed with a “good night, I love you.” I was reaching for the light switch and stopped in my tracks when I heard, “I love you too, Mama.” Did I hear that right? Am I still Mom? I looked over the side of the bed, exchanged a smile, and winked. Who understands precious borrowed moments like these?

There’s that eye twitch again.

This time it’s followed by a rhythmic head jerk.

I’m cracking.

The next morning there was haze and smoke in the air from Canada wildfires, so I put on some music in the living room to get our wiggles out. We danced and boogied to songs we used to love and songs I cried to many times since they left. It was surreal to see the kids with closed eyes, music coursing through their limbs, bending and contorting to refrains I’ve cried out to God when I didn’t know if I’d ever see them again.

Eyes twitching, head jerking, grimacing. Enter bargaining. Please, let us be together again. I miss them, and I don’t want to feel like this anymore.

The week passed by quickly. Soon I was packing up and saying goodbye. Goodbye for now. Goodbye for however long it will be until I see these kids (my kids?) again. The concession- I had this week. That could be enough. Maybe it’s all we needed for closure… for healing.

We pulled up to the designated meeting place. I unbuckled seat belts and offered a hand to jump down from the van. My grasp loosened, and they were gone. It wasn’t a traumatic goodbye this time, but it was still a goodbye.

I watched from my rearview mirror and stacked imaginary bricks around our vehicle. Walls are up. We can go home now.