Fools Rush In

We’re coming up on two years since our foster children left. I hadn’t thought about it until today when I started wondering why I’ve felt particularly unmotivated, lost at sea, and insecure this week. Nothing’s really happened, and St. Patrick’s Day is this Friday. There’s corned beef in the freezer and holiday-themed homeschool lessons in waiting, which is far more preparation for a minor holiday than usual. What could possibly be amiss? That’s when my mind started to wander, and the memory of St. Patrick’s Day and Easter two years ago put a lump in my throat.

Back then, we knew they might be leaving, but it didn’t seem particularly set in stone. Dates changed several times from before these holidays, between the two, after both. I remember green cupcakes, unsure if that was the last time they’d pile on the table and overmix the batter, and a brand new Easter dress hanging on the hook not knowing if I could pull off the tag.

I took several photos of our last morning together and one video. My eyes are tired and worried in the photos, but their smiles are as wide as ever. I, as the parent, understood how life would change and become so much harder in an hour’s time. They did not. The video captured the first time I heard them say, “I love you.” 35 seconds of “I love you, I love you, I love you” with the biggest, innocently heartbreaking smiles. I forgot about that milestone until reviewing the footage today. I wish it stayed forgotten. It brings me no joy seeing it.

I’ve read enough about the body keeping score and how our foster children may have reactions to anniversaries of trauma without consciously being aware of it. It certainly made sense for children, but I never thought I would experience that as well until two years later finding myself listless and untethered, battling insecurities I haven’t quite felt since set things became unsettled.

So what can I say at 2 years? I miss them. I’ve never stopped. Distance and time cannot touch that. It doesn’t alter what has been- the hours rocking them as babies, holding out my arms to receive the first wobbly steps, cheering wildly when she passed her tadpole swim lessons, and the everything in between. There was so much in the everything.

I’m not the same person I was two years ago. I haven’t changed, but my family has and that doesn’t simply close a chapter. It closes the book. We’re living the sequel now, rewritten with different characters, and while the story continues, it doesn’t make it better. It’s just different.

I have nothing more to say really but this song is on repeat.