So here it is..have been dealing with some big, nasty hurt feelings today and just have to get it out. Prepare for my blogging as therapy post (hey, works for me and it’s cheaper).
Our family is not like many others I know. We deal with issues with our kids that other families may not ever have to think about. Our kids regularly have pretty deep talks about birth family and loss, having 2 moms or dads, abuse and neglect and drugs. We are age appropriate in our discussions, but also very open and honest. Our family is different.
We are foster parents who take in kids that come from unspeakable situations and do our best to comfort them in the hardest moment of their little lives. It can be tough to answer my boy’s questions about how a tiny baby is broken or why they aren’t with their families. Many times we take in babies who don’t understand what is going on, sometimes it is a toddler who just knows that they have been taken away from their home, their parents and all that they have known. Our boys go to sleep at night and sometimes wake up to see a new face at the breakfast table. They may ask why, but they seem to be ok with it.
Dee and I know that we have a full plate with our kids and believe me, there is always some drama going on with someone in the family (with 4 kids and 3 being so close in age how could there not be?). One might say we should give up fostering and simply focus on our immediate family. In so many words, I was basically told that today. I understand it. I get where they were coming from. There is a “but” in there for me. I love my kids with ALL of my heart, I try to go above and beyond to show them that they are everything to me. Taking in foster kids doesn’t mean that I love them less. I don’t see it as taking away from them. My hope is that my children see this compassion for others and become compassionate adults. I hope that someday they can think past themselves and what might be “best” and do what is right and kind.
There is something so pure to me about giving a child a safe place to be when life is most turned upside down, to tuck them in and be able to say “tonight you are safe and loved.” Sometimes they trust you enough to hug you, sometimes there are tears. I can’t imagine being in their situation.
So, I deal with some hurt feelings, hearing from someone so dear to me that they think that us taking in a foster child is hurtful to our family, in my heart I know that the timing of it may not be perfect but it is the right thing to do. I can’t be mad, I know it came from a place of love for my boys, but it still stings.
Children
by Ina Hughes
We are responsible for children
who put chocolate fingers everywhere,
who like to be tickled,
who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants,
who sneak popsicles before supper,
who can never find their shoes.
And we are responsible for children
who can’t bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who are born in places we wouldn’t be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an x-rated world.
We are responsible for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish,
who cover themselves with Band-aids and sing off key,
who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
who slurp their soup.
And we are responsible for children
who never get dessert,
who have no blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can’t find any bread to steal,
who don’t have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren’t on anybody’s dresser,
whose monsters are real.
We are responsible for children
who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub,
who get no visits from the tooth fairy,
who don’t like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at, and
whose smiles can make us cry.
We are responsible for children
whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren’t spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.
We are responsible for children
who want to be carried and for those who must,
for those we never give up on and
for those who don’t get a second chance,
for those we smother, . . . and
for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind enough to
offer it.
by Ina Hughes
We are responsible for children
who put chocolate fingers everywhere,
who like to be tickled,
who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants,
who sneak popsicles before supper,
who can never find their shoes.
And we are responsible for children
who can’t bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who are born in places we wouldn’t be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an x-rated world.
We are responsible for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
who sleep with the dog and bury goldfish,
who cover themselves with Band-aids and sing off key,
who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
who slurp their soup.
And we are responsible for children
who never get dessert,
who have no blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can’t find any bread to steal,
who don’t have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren’t on anybody’s dresser,
whose monsters are real.
We are responsible for children
who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse out the tub,
who get no visits from the tooth fairy,
who don’t like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at, and
whose smiles can make us cry.
We are responsible for children
whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren’t spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.
We are responsible for children
who want to be carried and for those who must,
for those we never give up on and
for those who don’t get a second chance,
for those we smother, . . . and
for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind enough to
offer it.
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Three Scurvy Dogs a Wee Lass (and their Mamas) 