Adoption must get easier than this. If adoption was like this for everyone — people wouldn’t do it any more. In fact, they would shuffle away from the mere mention of adoption as if they’d been beaten by an angry bookie with a drainage pipe.
Not that I have any clue what an angry bookie even looks like having never even played a slot machine. But I recently (yesterday) experienced a different kind of torturous brutal beating… the kind that comes with the following words: “Mommy! Mommy! My real mom gave me a bunch of stuff at our visit and I love her and I want to go back to my real home with my real mom and my real dad.”
The wind blew from chest, my knees went weak, and my heart dropped to my feet.
I’ve tried to keep from writing about this. I paced in front of my computer needing to write about it, needing to share it with you, but unable to find the right words. The simple truth is that we are coming to the end of our accidental foster parenting (we were supposed to only be notified when our case worker had located legally free children) and we probably — on some level — have to witness the kids transitioning. If they were begging to stay here right up until the moment they were returned to their birth parents or sent to long-term foster care, it would be much worse. It would be more painful, I’m told. Forgive me for my disbelief. More pain? Who could take more?
Less than twenty-four hours ago, Josh completed the best swing set I’ve ever seen between two trees in the backyard. The kids came out and dutifully sat on the swings, pumped a few times, and then walked away. Not a thank you. Not a gleeful, happy smile. Not even a nod of approval. They have withdrawn. The transformation is complete. And yet they still call us mom and dad — for how much longer, I wonder?
Bring on the angry bookie.