I don’t normally swear when I write. I try to be respectful of all my readers even though in person I can be a bit brash.
So, please excuse what’s plunging out of me today.
Duck.
See. (Even my autocorrect knows I don’t usually type this)
But.
Fuck.
In 12 hours I have been on both ends of joy and grief.
In 12 hours I have choked on my own spit as my bio daughter was asked if our former foster son was her brother at a check up. It’s been 18 months.
When will the paper trail of reminders end?
In 12 hours I have wept with Joy as I was texted possible dates for the finalization of our youngest foster child’s adoption. When reunification is not possible, we move forward and celebrate her status as family instead of orphan.
At the opposite end of the 12 hours I have held back hot tears as they punched my face when my kids and I walked into the park and stood face to face with the same boy mentioned earlier.
It’s his birthday.
As I watched him quickly be escorted away, I texted my safe people while I burned inside with a plethora of emotions.
Foster care will bring you your greatest joys.
Foster care will bring you your greatest pains.
And you will have to be the adult and carry that baggage.
Crying in public will become a thing.
And you’ll be so over it you won’t care that people stare.
In 12 hours from loss to gain and back again.
To the Land of Loss and Back a Gain.
