Birth Mom

Tags

birth mom, family visits, foster parenting

It hurts when you don’t show up.

Family visits are usually once a week (sometimes twice a week) for two hours at a time.

Let me say that again – Once a week; two hours at a time.

That’s not a lot of time when you think about how many hours are in the week (168, just in case you were wondering).  It’s not a lot of time to see your child.  Not a lot of time to bond, to play, to visit, to care, to parent.

So why don’t you show up?

When you were the one who requested the visit, when you don’t have a job, when you don’t have anything else in the world that needs your attention more than your child, why don’t you show up?

I’m trying so very hard not to judge.

I know there are millions of reasons not to show up.  Sometimes you can’t get a ride, sometimes you forget, sometimes your addiction flares and you’re in no shape to visit.  I know these reasons, and I try not to judge.  After all, sometimes, you’re just a child yourself.

But.

We show up.  We wait for you in the playroom.

I plaster a smile on my face, anxious whether or not you’ll be there this time.  I can tell he’s anxious and a bit nervous, but I try to be happy and calm and reassure him that everything’s going to be fine.  He may be only a toddler, but he knows what this place is.  He knows what is supposed to happen when he comes here.

He whines.  He throws toys.  He tries to run outside.

Finally, the worker tells us we can go, and to be honest, I’m relieved.  At least now we know. You’re not showing up.

He may be only a toddler, but I can tell he’s confused and hurt.

Or maybe I’m projecting my feelings onto him.  Because I’m hurt.  And I’m confused.  I want so badly to protect him from the pain I know one day he will feel because of this.  I want you to show up.  Or I want you to leave for good.

I’m trying not to judge.

Homestretch/Homesick

Tags

actor's life, foster parenting, theatre

We’re heading into the home stretch – the show is almost open!  Hurrah!  Then only six more weeks until I go home.  

I’m not complaining.  I’m very grateful for the work.  It’s always nice for an actor to have a gig during the holidays (it means you can afford to buy gifts).  I’ve wanted to work at this theatre for years, and it’s been wonderful so far.  The people, the facility – it’s all very excellent.  [Tangent – theatre people are the best.  I don’t know of any other work place where you can have BIG discussions with people and then go out and work together.  Yesterday, as we were getting ready for the student matinee, we discussed cultural appropriation in the dressing room, and fifteen minutes later, I walked on stage with my fellow actors and a whole new persepctive on appropriating cultural hairstyles. I love having those big, open honest discussions!]  Yet despite all these good things, I am VERY homesick.  

I’m also feeling a bit cursed.  In the past three weeks, I’ve injured my right leg (strained my quad, hamstring, adductor and glute), had a severe chest cold (and I’m still coughing), had the stomach flu and didn’t eat for four days, woke up with an allergy attack one morning (my left eye was swollen shut and I couldn’t breathe), and now my right knee is stiff and both my shoulders have bruises from the shoulder roll I do in fight choreo.  Granted, some of this can be contributed to the fact that I am probably a bit too old now to be playing an elfen child.  But I couldn’t say no to the pointy ears! 

  
In other news, the hunting gods have been very good to us this winter.  Will got a moose tag and a mule deer tag this season.  I went with him for the moose hunt, and he got the moose within the first couple hours of opening day (third largest in the butcher shop that weekend – not that he was trophy hunting; it was just a large bull).  

Funny story – I was in the truck with foster baby and my three-year old niece while Will and my brother-in-law got out to shoot the moose.  I cried when the moose was shot.  They are incredibly majestic creatures, and I watched him with awe as he stood there calmly in the fog, drinking from the slough. He was so beautiful, and so oblivious to the fact that he was about to die (but then again, I suppose we all are).  I wept.  My niece just watched me.  When I finished sniveling, my niece said, “Did you cry after the moose was shot?”  And I replied, “Yes, I did.”  She asked me why, and I said,”Well, I was sad that the moose had to die.”  She was quiet for a moment, obviously contemplating my answer.  Then she said,”Animals have to die if we’re going to eat them.”  Out of the mouth of babes.

Will also got his mule deer on the first day as well.  Our freezer is well stocked with meat for the winter.  Thank you moose and deer.  I am grateful.  

To wrap things up on an “it would be funny if I wasn’t already so homesick” note – despite explicit instructions from me NOT to change or grow while I was gone, foster baby has gone and spoke his first word – Jack.  After weeks, nay MONTHS, of coaching him to say Mama or Dada, his first word is Jack.  Jack is a little boy at his daycare.  I see now where we rank in importance, and I’m only a little bit heart broken.  I’ll get over it.  

Finally Catching Up

Tags

Apples, backyard chickens, beets, canning, foster parenting, garden, sour cherries

I’m still alive, albeit buried under a mound of laundry, household chores, work, shows, and garden produce.

Garden Update

Yowza.  I don’t even know where to begin with my garden updates.  One garden is totally thriving in its neglect.  That’s the one that is planted at my friend’s rental property.  We’ve been enjoying zucchini, beets (Cylindra, Golden, and Chioggia) and green beans from that garden, and the corn, carrots, and tomatoes are well on their way.

I used a few beet leaves to make Beetniks.  When I was a child, I loved beetniks, but one night, I ate too many and threw up.  I haven’t eaten them since.  This time around, I showed some restraint, eating only five or six at a time.  They are so rich and delicious.  Finally, a Ukrainian food that I’m really good at making!  Still working on my perogie skills.

I got the recipe from this fantastic book called Out of Old Saskatchewan Kitchens by Amy Jo Ehman.  It’s a fascinating book and totally fuels my fantasies of being a pioneer.

As for the garden that’s in my backyard, it’s literally a jungle of squash vines, and there is about five different types of squash growing like mad.  I wanted to keep all the squash in our backyard so that I could pollinate the blooms by hand.  Well, with four hives in the backyard, that really wasn’t necessary this summer, and now I will have a ridiculous amount of squash to put away for the winter.

Surprisingly, the bell peppers have done well this summer, too.  They’re nice and big, and ripening to a beautiful red.  (I’ve been patiently waiting for them to turn red; I don’t like green peppers)

Chicken Update

Warning:  Graphic weird image of “egg” below

I don’t know what is going on with my girls.  No one is laying right now.  At least, no one is laying a normal egg right now.  Ginger just finished molting, and one of the little girls just started molting (Short Comb, I think), and the other little girl (Floppy Comb, I think) is laying such gross monstrosities that in four years of keeping chickens, I never seen anything like them.

What the hell!?  She’s laid three of these “eggs” in the past two weeks.  Before they started appearing, I was finding some funny shaped eggs in the nesting box, and some soft shelled eggs being dropped from the roost.  I have no idea what is causing her to lay these yolk filled water balloons.  I’ve tried giving them yogurt, restricting treats, adding vitamins to their water, adding apple cider vinegar to the water.  Nothing worked.  She continues to lay these weirdos.  I’m convinced there’s something wrong with her internally, since I’ve tried every diet adjustment I can find.  Thing is, I’m not 100% sure which chicken is laying them.  I can’t catch her in the act.  Once I know who it is, it’s the chopping block for her.  She must be on to me . . .

Canning Update

Holy moly, I couldn’t keep up with the raspberries this summer.  There’s still some on the bushes that could be picked, but I’m done now.  I’ve put three large freezer bags of raspberries away to make jam later, and my friend Jen took about four cups of berries off one day.  All from my little raspberry patch in the garden.  Thank you bees!

The sour cherries across the street were unbelievable this year.  I put some up as preserves, and then made some jam.  The berries are so heavy on the tree that they’re weighing down the branches, taunting me to come pick more.  But I must move on to strawberries and apples now.

My friend Melanie let me come pick from her apple tree last Saturday, and the apples are lovely (and ripe so early this year!).  I juiced them in the steam juicer (which was so worth the $200 + that I spent on it; I expect it to last at least 100 years), and then I turned the mush into apple sauce, and put up 12 pints of sauce.  That’s just round one.  I need a lot of apple sauce this year.  I finished all the apple sauce and apple butter last winter.

I think that about catches me up.  As for foster baby update, we have made a successful transition to cloth diapers (yay!) and he is growing (and gaining weight) like a little weed.  Nothing better than a happy, healthy baby.

A Different Kind of Happiness

Tags

foster parenting, happiness

We accepted a foster placement.

I know, I know.  One minute I’m complaining about how ridiculously busy I am, and the next, we add a foster baby into the mix.

I’m a sucker.  What else can I say?

A very wise woman, my Baba, once said to me, “Jamie, I just want you to have a baby, and then you’ll be happy.”

At the time, I was 23 years old and wanted nothing to do with babies.  I couldn’t even conceive of how having a baby would make me happy.  My career made me happy.  My boyfriend made me happy.  My friends made me happy.  But a baby?  That just sounded like work.  And what an “un-feminist” thing to suggest!  All you need is a baby to make you happy?  Then why did I bother going to university?  No, no, I don’t need a baby to make me happy, I thought.  My career will make me happy.

Here I am, fourteen years later, and I finally realize the wisdom of her words.  She was talking about a different kind of happiness.  A deep happiness.  A happiness of the soul.  At the age of 23, all I had known was superficial happiness.

Having a foster baby in my life makes me happy on a cellular level.  It makes my whole being happy, even when I’m bone-tired and run off my feet.

Without a child, my life is lack lustre.   My beautiful, important career suddenly seems phony and immature and shabby.  I have no direction.  I have no purpose.  I’m just a tired, old, selfish actress.  But with a child, I know what I’m supposed to be doing.  I know my role.  I know my purpose.  Once I have my role pinned down, then everything else just lines up.

For many years, I could not understand why anyone would want to have children.  Seriously.  I just COULD NOT understand the desire to procreate and raise offspring.  I got stuck on the idea that there was only one way to be a parent – by giving birth.  Once I let go of that narrow view of parenthood, I found my niche.  I found the form of parenting that felt right to me.

I’m a foster parent, I’m good at it, and it makes me happy.  Deeply happy.

I Have Nothing New to Share

Tags

brokenheart, depression, foster parenting

Yesterday, I spring cleaned hard core from 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. and then collapsed on the couch and watched Netflix, barely moving for two hours until I hauled my ass to bed at 10 p.m.

I ate pizza and cheesecake for supper.

We’re out of fruit, almost out of coffee, almost out of toilet paper,and yet, I can’t seem to make myself go to the grocery store or create a meal plan for the week.

I have no desire to take care of myself now that I don’t have a child in my life.

Even though we had plenty of time to prepare for foster toddler’s departure, it wasn’t until the day before that it really hit home – she’s leaving.  It’s strange to come home and find toys scattered about, and her bed unmade, and little socks in the dryer, and know that she’s gone.  Sometimes, I think, “She’s just at daycare.  I’ll pick her up at 5.”

I know I’ve said that it doesn’t take a saint to be a foster parent, but it does require a certain strength or perhaps, resilience, and a willingness to have your heart broken many, many times (masochism?)

We garden, but you know that.  I love my chickens and dogs, but you know that, too.  I’m having trouble creating “content” for the blog lately.  Blame it on a broken heart, but everything I do seems tired and bland and pointless, especially making theatre.  I understand that I am responsible for creating purpose and meaning in my life, but when such a large part of my purpose for the past six months was “raise a happy and healthy child” and suddenly that’s gone, it’s easy to sink into a pothole of despair (not a pit; it’s not that deep; I’ll climb out eventually).

In the meantime, I just keep moving forward.  I don’t think ahead too much.  I just do whatever the next step is.  The next step right now is spring cleaning.  Hopefully, in a couple of weeks, not only will I have a sparkling clean house, I’ll have a mended spirit.

Daaaaaaa!

Tags

foster parenting, fostering

That’s how foster toddler says, “Done!”  She learned how to sign “done” at daycare, so she spreads her arms out, palms turned up, and says, “Daaaaa.”  Her vowels need some work yet, but she’s got the consonant, and of course, we know exactly what she’s saying.  

We are now “daaaaa!” with our first-year social worker.  We wrapped up our annual assessment this afternoon, and the next time we see her will be at the transition meeting when she introduces us to our new social worker.  

We finished up some lingering questions regarding our home safety check.  She was THOROUGH.  But not thorough in a “I’m doing a good job” kind of way but thorough in a “I’m going to ask you stupid questions about common sense practices so that I can cover my ass every which way possible” kind of way.  

For example, my Fire Evacuation map posted on the side of our fridge.  It wasn’t good enough because I merely drew a map of our house and clearly marked the exits (doors and windows) from each room with large arrows.  No, in her mind, the plan should also have detailed instructions on how to exit the house.  So I wrote down 1)  Exit the house through the nearest door or window (see arrows on the map).  Because in case of a fire, Will and I are going to abandon the child in the house and run for our lives.  Assuming they can read, they now know to exit the house through the nearest door or window.  (I’m just kidding.  In case of a fire, Will is going to get the child out of the house, and I will get the dogs.  She made me write that down as well.  The third instruction was “Phone 911.”  After I wrote that down, she said, “I don’t know.  Do you think that’s clear enough?”  I walked away and hung the map back up on the fridge).  

Next we discussed the chickens and bees, and what precautionary safety measures we were taking because, as you know, killer chickens.  She was concerned about diseases from the chickens.  I said that a) the child has no reason to enter the coop, and b) as long as you don’t wear your coop cleaning boots inside the house, you’ll be fine.  That concerned her.  Why would you leave your shoes outside? I said, “For the same reason you would leave your shoes outside if you stepped in dog poop.  It’s gross and unhealthy to bring animal feces into your home.  At least you can compost your chickens’ poop.”  

As for the bees, the hives are located at the back of the garden, which is enclosed with a fence to keep out dogs and small children.  To which she replied, “But children can climb fences.”  To which I replied, “What else would you suggest we do?  Enclose the garden in barbed wire?”  That was followed by a long discussion about the differences between wasps and bees, and why wearing a bee beard is totally safe.  

Once the safety assessment was finally over (“Tell me, any of those substances you’re storing near the furnace, are they flammable?”  Deep breath.  Suppress the urge to scream, “Do I look like a fucking idiot?”), then we finished our learning assessment tool (see this blog post regarding my assessment of the learning assessment tool).  After pointing out last time that no one would ever answer, “No I don’t think that skill is important to my role as a foster parent,” she conveniently filled in every answer for us with “3 – Very Important” but we still had to rate ourselves between “0 – Exceptional” and “3 – Not at All” on seven more pages of questions.  At the end, right about when foster toddler was going to need to eat supper or go ballistic, Social Worker said, “I know that was difficult for you, but thanks for getting through it.”  No, I corrected her, it wasn’t difficult.  I could have banged that thing off in half an hour instead of two hours if you hadn’t insisted on expanding and discussing every question.  I don’t like the learning assessment tool because it was not designed to provide me with any useful feedback; I find no value in it.  Especially since it has no bearing on our annual review, and now it’s going to be signed by your supervisor, the “score” will be entered into a database and  find its way in to some sort of governmental report on the effectiveness of the P.R.I.D.E training program , and then tucked in our file to never see the light of day again.  It was never designed for true self-evaluation; it was designed so that the Ministry could have a metric to report.  

I could keep ranting, but I’ll stop there because we’re “daaaaa” with her.  I will just say that if everyone who had a baby had to go through the bureaucratic bullshit that foster parents have to go through, it just might put an end to our exponential population growth.  Ta Ta for now.  

Me Time

Tags

foster parenting, ideal Saturday morning, postaday

Prompt:

What’s your ideal Saturday morning? Are you doing those things this Saturday morning? Why not?

Post:

Up until about, oh, a year ago, I used to live my ideal Saturday morning every weekend.  These days, though, I haven’t had an ideal Saturday morning in months.

I would sleep in, and when I finally awoke around 10 or 11 a.m., I’d make a large pot of strong, black coffee, and feed the dogs.  Then I’d return to bed with the dogs and a cup of coffee and read for about an hour.  Eventually, usually at the prompting of Will, I would shower and clean myself up, and we’d make our way to the Farmers’ Market, where I would drink more strong, black coffee and sit at a table and people watch for about half an hour until getting up to buy food for the week.  (Getting a table at the Farmers’ Market on Saturday morning is really difficult, so ideally, I’d have one reserved for me, ready to go, so I wouldn’t have to hover and creep people out).  If it was any other season than winter, we’d bike to the Farmers’ Market and back.  Once home, we’d put away the food and make lunch from our purchased goods.  Then I’d probably return to drinking coffee and reading books with the dogs curled up around me.

But as I said, I haven’t had one of those in months.  Why?  Because that was our life BC: before children .  They ruin your life in the best way possible.

Now, I get up at 7 or 8 a.m. (Waaaahhh, I have completely lost my ability to sleep in), so that I can get in a shower before the dogs and child wake up.  I still make a large pot of strong, black coffee but no longer for pleasure.  It’s a necessity to keep my eyes open and my brain alert.  I feed the dogs AND the child, and instead of returning to bed to read, I try to entertain the child in her highchair long enough for me to quickly check Facebook and email.  Then we’re off running for the rest of the day.  We usually do still make it to the Farmers’ Market a couple of Saturdays a month.  But no more people watching – I’m now on toddler watch all the BLOODY TIME.

I’m going to admit something here that isn’t too pleasant.  Somedays,  I really hate parenting.  I would like to just quit, and go back to being child free.  I had one of those days yesterday. as a matter of fact.  Thankfully, I have a very understanding husband, who sent me to my room for the night and took care of the toddler.  I spent the night watching Netflix on the iPad with the dogs sleeping on the bed with me.  It was glorious.  I hate to admit that I can’t handle it.  I feel like I should be able to handle it.  But there are days when I just can’t.

I am an introvert, and I need “me time” in order to function, almost as much as I need food and water.  However, even as I write this, I know there will be a day when I am child free again, when the foster toddler has moved on, and even though I will get to have my ideal Saturday mornings again, they will be filled with a bitter-sweetness, a tinge of sadness.  Perhaps a new ideal Saturday morning will then emerge.

My First Fostering Heartbreak

Tags

foster care, foster parent, fostering, heart break

My foster baby has gone back to his mom.

His social worker phoned me at 11 a.m. on the Tuesday after the Thanksgiving long weekend, and told me they were moving him back to his mom that afternoon – would 3 p.m. be okay?  All I could say was,”Wow.  That’s really quick.”  She responded,”Well, his mom went into the program on Friday, and she had to wait the whole long weekend to have her kids moved back to her.”

The mean, nasty part of my heart was saying, yes, but she’s the one who fucked up, AND she’s only been clean for a month.  Why is she getting such special treatment, when you’re giving me four hours to say goodbye to a baby I’ve raised for the past six months?  I realize that doesn’t make me seem like the best person in the world, but people have said that I’m a saint for being a foster parent, and I want to let you know my honest reaction – not so saint like.

I suppose no matter how much time I had been given to say goodbye, it still would have hurt like hell.  Everyone asks,”But don’t you get attached?”  Yes, damn it.  Of course I got attached.  The baby is supposed to attach, and you’re supposed to attach.  Attachment is healthy.  (It’s very unhealthy when there is no attachment).

Everyone asks,”But won’t it be hard to give him back?”  Yes, very fucking hard.  It hurt.  So fucking much.  We put him in the social worker’s car, strapped him into his car seat for the last time, and watched him smile at us through the window, knowing we’d probably never see him again, and my heart shattered into a million pieces.

But here’s the thing: I am not afraid to grieve.  I am afraid of what would have happened to my foster son if no one was willing to step up and take care of him.  He has a Mom and Dad, Grandma and Grandpa, Great Grandma and Grandpa, Aunts and Uncles, and no one – NO ONE – in his family was able to step up and take care of him.  We did.

We’re taking a break for awhile.  Mostly to give ourselves a physical and mental break after an exhausting six months.  But also to keep our home open just in case everything goes to shit in the next few weeks, and the little Bug needs to come back into care.  He’s not even a year old, and we were his third foster home.  I don’t want him to go to a fourth.

“But won’t it be hard to give him back AGAIN?”

Yes.  But it’s not about me.