Fostering.... hope and pain. An extension of Milky Macaroni and Dear Baby D

Are they all yours?
Wow, you have your hands full.
Do they all have the same father?
You know how that happens, right?
You aren't having any more are you?
You are a saint.

I've had 40 children. Let me rephrase. I've parented 40 children. I did not, let me repeat, did NOT eject 40 children from my body.

Here are some of my answers to these previously stated questions and comments.

1: Are they all yours? I get this question A LOT.  Yes, they are all mine. The ones that look like me, the ones that don't. They all deserve someone who will say that they are theirs, so they are mine.

2: Wow, you have your hands full. This one has a few classic answers.

• If you think my hands are full, you should see my heart. 
• Full hands, empty fridge.
• My hands may be full, but my bank account is empty.

3: Do they all have the same father? Holy shit, did you really just ask that? Katie, fix your face so the words running through your head do NOT, I repeat, do NOT come out of your mouth. Classic answers...

• Nope. *wink*
• Actually, I have 4 baby daddies. *pause* And 3 baby mamas. 
• Blank stare.

4: You know how that happens, right? 

• Nope, why don't you explain it to me? 
• Heck yes, why do you think I have so many?!
• Well, usually I get a call at every damn hour of the night and day that there's been a child removed from an unsafe situation and there is no appropriate family member able or willing to care for the child and then I call and beg my husband for just one more and at first he asks me if I'm insane and then he asks me when I am picking the child up. Insert awkward silence, then an apology, then an over the top compliment about sainthood.

5. You aren't having any more are you? Well no, Susan, I am not having any more out of my body. You see, I've had some work done and I don't want to eff with that. Will I say yes to fostering more children? Probably. How many? I don't know, are you going to start caring for foster children? Until then, I probably won't stop.

6. You are a saint. I am not a saint. I am a mama. I am a very tired, yet fulfilled mama who hopes and prays that someday there will not be a need for the foster care system and that communities and churches and families and friends will step in and step up in times of need. I am not a saint. After I put all of my kids to bed every night, I wonder what I got myself into. I am not a saint. My children know that wine and coffee are my favorite drinks, sometimes in that order. Marie Kondo suggests we give away anything that does not "spark joy" and let me tell you, there are days where I am very close to Marie Kondo-ing some of these kids. I am just a normal, overtired mama, doing what people should do. I am looking forward to the day where giving of ourselves is not cause for sainthood.

I have had 40 children and currently I have 5. I have two biological children and two adopted children and a chunky not-so-little baby boy that is going to be ours forever in a few short months. 
I want to tell you about some of them. 

First, Anthony. He was one of our first foster children and also one of our longest stays. He was 7 when he came to our home. His mother had been homeless so they were motel hopping. She was also a prostitute and used drugs regularly. Anthony came to my home with an old ninja turtles backpack with a photo album, cell phone, and one change of clothes.

The first several nights Anthony was with us, I sat at the end of his bed and sang to him and talked to him and prayed as he cried, wailed, for his mother. He was one of our first foster children and the experience of watching a child mourn for his mother was so painful. He didn't understand why his normal wasn't safe.

Time went on and Anthony got in a routine and our family functioned like a family. He thrived. He loved to play outside and ride his bicycle. He loved going to the beach and singing and dancing. He loved his foster siblings. We struggled occasionally, as any family does, but in foster care ways. Anthony would hoard food. He would binge eat and hide all of the evidence in the same place behind the couch. Anthony eventually did not need to hoard food anymore and realized that he didn't have to worry about food.

Anthony always requested his mac n cheese to be milky. At first I didn't understand why. Then he told me that his mom used to make it that way. Anthony lived with us for a year and a half and in that time, he never stopped wanting milky macaroni.

The tears stopped. Being without his mom became normal-ish to him.... But he never stopped wanting the milky macaroni.

For those people who always wanted to foster but were afraid of the pain of giving the kids back.... It's real. The pain is so real. I am still mourning that sweet boy. I see him every once in a while. He's happy. His aunt adopted him and he's happy.

I bet he still likes his macaroni milky though.
His pain, his grieving.... It's so much more than me. 

Now, I want to tell you about Emma. When a case manager from the Department of Child Services showed up at my door with this tiny 4 month old baby, we fell head over heels in love. Emma was 4 months old but she was malnourished and weighed only 9 pounds. She had the most beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair. Her head was flat in the back and she made no expressions. She did not smile. She did not cry. She did nothing. She was the cutest little baby blob.

Emma needed feedings every two hours for about a month with special formula. We held her. We sang to her. We taught her to sit up, to crawl, to stand. In time, Emma smiled. She called me mama. I was her mama. Her biological mama tested positive for methamphetamines when Emma was born. Emma and her brother and sister were given to grandma to care for them but grandma could not handle having a baby. And then grandma couldn't handle having her brother and sister either. And then there were 7. How did I do it? Assembly line of love! They were my children and I loved every single one of them. (And yes, I was so relieved every night after they were asleep.)

Emma lived with our family for 7 months, her brother and sister were with us for 4 months. And then... DCS called to tell us that they would all be going home in 2 days. Two days. Two days to pack up months and months of belongings and memories. Two days to let go of my children. Mine. I had to drop them off at a homeless shelter where their mother was living. I dropped my Emma off with her mother who had tested positive for methamphetamines only 3 months earlier at a homeless shelter. I could give her a better life. To this day, my heart is broken not knowing where they are or what their life is like. Emma is 2 years old now. I want to imagine her running and playing and smiling and dancing and doing all of the things that happy, healthy two year olds do. I want to. I have to cling to that. Foster care is sometimes heartbreaking. It doesn't get easier with ones like these. There have been a few like her.

Last, I'd like to tell you about Dominic. 
When they called me about him, I was teaching a class full of children. I saw our foster care coordinator’s name (Sherry) pop up on my phone. I’m not allowed to answer my phone at work. I did that day though. I always will when she calls. 

She said, “Katie, I have a 3 month old baby boy.” I said, “When do I pick him up?” She said, “Katie, wait. You need to know some things first.” Deep sigh. “He is terminally ill. He is one of many siblings, the past two of which have died from this genetic disease. He has Neurofibromatosis. We aren’t sure of his prognosis. He has never been to a doctor. He might die in your care. We think he is deaf also. Now, will you take him?” 

I told her I would have to call my husband. I told him about Dominic. We knew we had to consider what losing a baby would do to us, to our other children. I went in to my boss’s office. I told her about him. I asked her advice- she gave none. I walked back to my classroom and called Sherry. “I’ll take him. Of course I will take him. I love him already. He deserves a family.” 

The first time I laid eyes on this tiny baby, I was overwhelmed. With love, with emotion, with fear. Would I be able to give him what he needs? I will do my best, because he deserved my best. I loved him then. 

Over the first several weeks with him, he didn’t smile, he barely interacted, he struggled to breathe. When he was hospitalized for pneumonia, a double ear infection and the flu at 4 months old, I knew that he was my child. That may sound odd. Every child I foster has my heart, but not every child is mine. I stayed awake for 39 hours the first two days. My child was sick and he needed me. I held him. I sang to him, and it didn’t matter that I sang poorly. He watched my lips move, he smiled at me. He stole my heart. Forever. 

In the hospital, as I was journaling, I wrote to him and said this, "And if that day comes where my heart is broken from having to give you back or give you to God, I will never ever stop loving you. 
I will always be your mama and you will always be my baby boy." 

He will be 19 months old in a few days. 
(At what point do I stop doing the months thing and switch to years? I'm currently 422 months old.) 

In the months that followed his hospitalization, we learned so much more about his prognosis. Neurology sent him for an MRI to check for brain tumors. The ENT sent him for a test to figure out the extent of his hearing loss. The Physical Therapist expected to get him to start rolling over, sitting up, crawling and hopefully walking. Orthotics fit him with a cute little helmet with monkeys on it to help guide his head shape as it grew. The Pulmonologist was impressed by how great his breathing sounded. The Opthamologist checked him for ocular tumors. We found out so much about his Anatomy and Physiology, a class that I took four times in college because science is hard. 

He is no longer deaf.
He breathes.
He has no tumors.
His head is round.
He gets to live life. 

All of those diagnoses and doctors did NOT define my child. He is defined by his contagious smile. 
He is defined by the dozens of delicious, pudgy, caramel colored rolls on his arms, legs and tummy. 
He is defined by the accomplishments he has made. 
He smiles. 
He laughs. 
He plays.
He walks. 
He yells "mama" and laughs hysterically when I come in the room.
He reaches for me.
I will always reach for him. 
I will fight for him. 
I will advocate for him. 
We are adopting him. 
He is our forever child. 

I am so grateful for the chance to love on these children. I am so happy for them when they find a forever home or get to go home.
I worry.
I grieve.
I pray.
I love on the next ones.
I miss them.
I know every single one of their names.
I will always.
They are all my children.
I have had 40 children.
This is my calling.

My calling in life is to make macaroni milky.
What is yours?