My childhood memories revolve around hazy Pennsylvania summer evenings and swinging by the original Meadows for a dish of their frozen custard or spending the night at my grandparent's house where a bowl of Turkey Hill Dutch Chocolate, the round rainbow sprinkles (the ones that come with a 75% chance of chipping your tooth if you crunch them the wrong way) and some whipped cream was how we ended our day. Sometimes, those childhood sundaes consisted of the extra treat of hot fudge or caramel sauce and cherries. In high school, my absolute favorite time of the week was Thursday at 10:00 pm when just my parents and I would get our ice cream, usually Breyer's white mint chocolate chip, and watch ER together. It was my one sacred hour of the week. Adult me takes responsibility when eating ice cream these days with limited portion sizes and no toppings because apparently I like to deprive myself of joy. ;)
Now picture yourself making the very best version of your favorite sundae. The ice cream is perfectly scooped. The toppings are all in perfect ratios and evenly distributed and you plop down in your favorite chair to catch up on your favorite show, but it's not just your favorite show, it's a season ender. The kind with the epic plot twists and major cliff hanger and you hit play. The moment is one of pure perfection. And then, the next thing you know, you've gotten so engrossed in your show that you suddenly remember the perfect sundae and you slowly peer into your bowl only to confirm your sad suspicion. Your ice cream is now a soupy mess. Colors and flavors and melted ice cream, mixing and mashing with no rhyme or reason. Ruined. Sure the same ingredients are there in that indecipherable mess, but the texture, the coldness, the distinct flavors are gone.
This week, my insides feel like that soupy bowl of ice cream. My emotions and my thoughts are a jumbled mess. I mentioned in a December post about how the beginning of 2020 was going to hit us, wave after wave after wave. We are 1/3rd of the way through our roaring ocean.
I've been honest before about how my anxiety creeps back in around major court dates and our February court date has validated that this time will be no different. In fact, this court date is the most major one we've had so far.
As a foster parent I am required to keep our foster children safe, to protect their identities and their stories, to help them in whatever ways we can & in whatever ways they need. As foster parents, we have no rights, yet are expected to advocate for our foster children. In most cases, foster parents are the ones who end up knowing the children the best and the most, yet having the least voice. Our greatest challenge has been walking the line of speaking our truth as a married couple with foster children while honoring all the aforementioned areas. It's exhausting.
But, I do know this about myself. Writing has ALWAYS been my therapy. I was an avid diary keeper, journal writer and blogger and I have not written, for myself, in a year. Perhaps it was, rather suddenly, bringing home a newborn and lack of time & energy. Perhaps it was writing the constant emails to social workers, Guardian Ad Litems and CASA workers. Perhaps it's been the intense, emotionally raw & sacred text messages between myself and several of my in-the-trenches foster/adoptive mommas. But now, in an effort to squelch my anxiety and de-soupify myself, here I sit once more.
I cannot give you specifics. You know this and I know this and yet, I so desperately wish I could, to help paint our particular journey more clearly, but I can offer broad generalizations so those will have to suffice for the time being.
Imagine going about your day. Odds are, you know your expectations for the day and your plans for the next few days. Now imagine getting an out of the blue phone call and by the end of that day, there is a stranger sleeping in your house. It's not normal. It shouldn't be normal. It's sad and terrifying and chaotic. Even more so for the little ones who can't understand it. Try processing it through your adult head as an adult and then try processing it through your head as a child. Now remind yourself daily that you have no idea when this stranger, who will ultimately come to feel like an extension of yourself will leave or even IF they will leave. Heavy, right?
Our January court date provided us with another general idea of a timeline for our one kiddo. Nothing major. Nothing shocking. This was primarily due to a substitute judge. And thank goodness for that one tiny fact, because the Guardian Ad Litem almost put me on the stand. And just like it did before every presentation I ever gave in all my life, my heart immediately jumped into my throat at the mere mention of maybe having to speak in front of a group of people. In case you really don't know me, I have this reputation for being honest. I warned the GAL in that particular case because I couldn't guarantee, under oath, what would come out of my mouth, yet, surprisingly, she said she still trusted me and knew I would advocate for the child. But, dear 8lb. sweet baby Jesus, thank the good Lord above that I did not have to testify in that particular case. Amen.
I have been warned there is a possibility for me having to testify at our February court date. I can confidently tell you that this is the root of approximately 50% of my inward soupiness. Without giving anything away, all I can tell you is this case is DIFFERENT. So, I'm choosing to sit in the awareness of this being just another moment in time. We're well-versed in big moments. And something tells me if we can survive the moment of being told our baby no longer has a heartbeat, odds are, we'll survive this next major one, too.
In case you're having a challenging time trying to understand where I'm coming from or what this life is like, maybe this picture will help. That picture is of Book #1 & Book #3. This month (if I was actually up-to-date), I would be completing Book #8, Book #19 and Book #21. Now think about all the stuff you've crammed into that many months and view it all as temporary with no guarantees of forever (not that any of us have tomorrow's guaranteed anyway). <---Boy, that line was a downer. Sorry!
Imagine looking at that stack of books grow, month after month, wondering how and when the ending will be written?
What I can tell you is that, even with the hardships, the exhaustion, the worry, the never-ending impact of trauma and chaos, I am eternally grateful for being allowed to be part of these kiddos stories. And should I be called to testify, I know that I will find a way to push my heart back into its proper place and the strength to advocate for these children because they deserve my very best.
If you've made it this far and if you wouldn't mind, please send all the prayers, positive energy and good thoughts our way over these next few weeks. We confidently know who the Master Author is and we are praying the chapters of our story and the chapters of their story get to stay aligned for just a little while longer.
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