Due Date: How 9 Months of Parenthood Gave Birth to a Family

I don't know which one is me nor what
we are doing but I know I am the mommy!

It’s not as often nowadays that I look at them like little aliens. It still happens, but on the whole they are much less scary and way more lovable than the day last August that the three little strangers turned up on our front porch. That’s a good thing, since we’re about to adopt them.

Adoption. I still remember the day that I first really considered it, sitting in a cubicle at work, realizing I’d rather raise someone else’s biological child than be sad for the rest of my life every time I saw a baby. Realizing that it was possible. I remember hoping that my family could accept an adopted child. I also remember the day shortly thereafter when I told my husband that my sister and I were going to a movie, and we really went to an information session on adopting. That was in September of 2009. I wanted to be sure I thought I could do it before I asked him to be a part of it with me for real. We’d been considering it all along, really – I have polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), the leading cause of infertility, and am not a fan of doctors, shots nor pills – but we had yet to take a first step on what would become a nearly 5-year journey to real, really really real, parenthood.

Oh, the things we have learned and survived, the joys and the fears, the highs and lows since they came. Now, 6, 5 and nearly 3, they’ve lived with us long enough to outgrow shoes. Keeping kids in shoes that fit is one tiny facet of my new world. Together with my husband and family I have survived with three children: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine’s, Easter, two birthdays, half a dozen birthday parties, two lost teeth, doctors, dentists, therapists, stomach viruses, teachers, homework, the loss of a pet, car problems, house problems, boo-boos, potty training, Chuck E. Cheese and more laundry than I could have ever imagined. These are all normal occurrences, I realize. However, when you add three kids to anything, life becomes much more interesting.

This past December, less than five months after the kids’ arrival and right before Christmas, one of my seventh grade students hanged herself and died. Any way you look at it, it was a harrowing, disturbing and disheartening experience to have, and to try to overcome. But I was looking at it with three kids and all the pressure of a new foster mom. In the months that followed, I hid my grief the best I could from our children. Mommy was “sick” or needed to “rest” a lot. I felt horrible, depressed, and robbed of the joys of enjoying my children. As a human I knew what I had to do to grieve, but as a mother I was lost. As the school year went on, six more of my very own students would attempt to take their lives, one of them twice. The school protocol and lack of resources failed the students time and again, and their suffering went on unabated; we teachers found ourselves in a toxic and dangerous epidemic with very little support and no end in sight. Regardless, I would get up every day and go back to that school to try to love and protect and heal those kids, and I would come home every night and hide the tears from mine.

I tell this part of the story to say that it’s really an incredible feat, parenting, because just as the world does not stop turning after a young girl takes her life, the world does not stop turning for parents. Not if you’re sick, not if your car breaks down, not if you’re depressed or broke, fighting or scared. The kids are still there, they still need you, and I’ve achieved new feats of strength trying to rise to the occasion no matter what. On this Mother’s Day eve, I would like to thank my mother, along with my father, for fighting the good fight with their three kids not just when times were good, but when they were really, really hard. We never knew. Thank you.

On a lighter note, it came to me as I shopped for cards a week or so ago that I am a mother this Mother’s Day! So unusual and so instant was my role as a parent that I didn’t realize it until I stood in the greeting card aisle. It got even more real a few days later, when the adoption papers arrived in the mail. In mid-April, our case was finally moved from a foster to an adoptive caseworker with the state. Our children were granted full termination of parental rights (TPR) in December, and we waited and waited as the state moved through their processes. Some days it was easy to be patient – it had already been years – and others, like when your son randomly starts calling himself by your last name…not so much. As of today, we have the adoptive caseworker, an adoption lawyer, the actual certificates of adoption and the papers that go to the judge. We are mere weeks from a court date that will seal the deal for good. We’ll be a brand new family of five! I am so thankful for this gift and for everyone who has helped and supported us. Turns out we really need you.

My amazing parents have rented a house on the Texas coast for all of us to go on vacation this summer. In less than a month, this nightmare of a school year will be over, and they will still be here, our kids, headed to the beach as part of our forever family. For better or worse, we’ll be official; we belong to each other now, and it is exhilarating. Because in the end, after you’ve wiped away the tears, the blood or the vomit, this is what remains. And it is worth it.

On Worry and Wisdom

Like sands through the hourglass...

Today marks the 100^th day that my husband and I have housed, fed, clothed and loved three children from another home. A really bad home. And as we fight through the day-to-day consequences of what others have done to harm these kids, we stand in judgment too of ourselves, of our home. And wonder if we’re up to it all.

I wish I’d had time to post more and share more about what it’s been like going through the first three months with the kids. We have seen more happiness and fun and joy through their eyes than we have in years. We have learned invaluable parenting lessons about routines, mealtimes, organization, paperwork and punishments. Love and logic. Some days the successes are there and you feel like you might be onto something with this whole parenting deal. Our 2yo girl has made rapid developmental progress in language and learning. Our 4yo boy is finally receiving all of the speech therapy he needs to overcome his delays. Our 5yo girl is so bright, helpful and charming that at times, I feel lucky to be around her at all.

But we live in a fishbowl. The foster requirements are crushing. How can I maintain a full time job and raise three kids when we have constant home visits and inspections and a monthly mountain of paperwork and a form for every drop of children’s ibuprofen that touches their little mouths? How can we bond as a family when our quality time is taken up by a small army of caseworkers and therapists, marking literally every day of the calendar with one meeting or another? In addition to the doctor, dentist and daycare? We couldn’t take the kids to their elementary fall carnival because we were stuck in an 8 hour re-training about the proper way to restrain children without hurting them. We can’t sit down to dinner until play therapy is over. Our little boy often asks, “who’s coming to our house today?”

You are my sunshine

My only sunshine

You make me happy

When skies are gray

You never know dear

How much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away. 

 

As we grow more attached to (and confused by) the kids, my mind wanders to their lingering termination of parental rights. Three parents are involved; two of three are out already. But one appealed. And our wait while the courts sort out that appeal could be up to a year, we are told. I know where he is, this man who sits in jail, in between these kids and their freedom from neglect and abuse. What I don’t know, and will never know, is why he hurt them and why he won’t let them heal. All I can do, I am reminded, is focus on what our adoption agency calls the big picture. Tell myself that however unbearable the uncertainty may be, it is temporary, and worth it.

All the time people tell me how lucky the kids are to be with us and what an amazing thing we are doing. I really appreciate the support. How these comments hit me depend on what is going on at that time. Did we just take them to the State Fair of Texas, feed them corn dogs and cotton candy and bring them home in one piece? Yes! We sure are the incredible parents these kiddos deserve. On the other hand, is our son redefining “toilet” by peeing in the trashcan and hamper? Is our daughter trying to lure her siblings into the closet to act out abuse that was perpetrated on her? Does it take 30 minutes to get out of the car because no child is listening, following directions, or maintaining a shred of respect for our role as parents, because we sort of aren't? Those days are the days when I lie to you and I say yes, thanks, amazing, lucky…but I know some of what really goes on around here would upset and frighten you. I wonder what you would think about how I handled it all, what advice you might be able to give, how you would judge me. But I am afraid to tell you the truth. This story is going to get ugly before it gets beautiful. Abuse does not get washed away with teddy bears and good intentions. We are in the fight of our lives for these kids. I really want to win.

Man v Child (or, the honeymoon’s over)

This woman is not to be trusted.

I’m not sure which night it was that I texted my parents to thank them. It was early on, maybe even the first weekend. I knew I had to tell them how much I appreciated their hard work raising my two sisters and me, and by the way thanks for not screwing it all up. Dad wrote back, “Now you know.” Boy, do we ever. My husband and I are outnumbered, out-energized and occasionally outwitted by our precious new brood. There were nights early in the game I was sure I couldn’t go on. My body hurt and I was delirious from lack of sleep. The changes and the responsibility overwhelmed me; I dreamt at night of snakes coming out of the walls. I became certain we were being hypnotized by the lullaby on the baby monitor; something akin to the way the slot machines sound when they’re all going at the same time. Delays in foster subsidies for the kids’ daycare and day-to-day needs have added financial strain to the already overwhelming stress of such a huge transition. One night last week our 5yo girl threw a fit that lasted four and a half hours. There is so much I now know about parenting that I never did, never could before.

I get why some parents talk about poop on Facebook. I don’t want to read it, and I’m not gonna write it, but I get it. I understand why parents often seem so angry with their kids in public, even when the child doesn’t seem to be doing anything wrong. I know why parents rarely go out, and why they had never seen any of the movies I was talking about all the time. Now when I hear it said that being a stay-at-home mom – and even more amazing, a single parent – is the hardest job in the world, I actually believe it. I know what it’s like to look at a sleeping child in awe and to feel pride in a child’s accomplishments. I get why parents can’t wait for school to start again, why grandparents are invaluable, summer camp a necessity. I see how messing up the daily routine means the whole family suffers for it later. After almost a month as a mom of three I felt like a Navy Seal who made it through training camp. And then I went back to work.

As foster parents we don’t get any family leave to adjust to parenthood; FMLA only applies if/when they’re adopted. So the first day of school for our kids was the first day of school for me as well. It wrecked me that I could not go with them as they headed off for the first time, in uniforms and with new backpacks, our 5yo girl and 4yo boy to kindergarten and pre-K respectively. My husband sent text updates, photos and videos to keep me in the loop. For the first time in four years of teaching, the middle-schoolers filing into my classroom did not seem like my babies; I had my own kids to worry about. And worrying is one thing I do well. Luckily as foster parents we catch a break here and there, and our kiddos can adapt better than some others, so there was no crying and clinging at class time. They braved their new school like they have everything else they’ve encountered so far. We celebrated the success, their efforts and all of the preparation that paid off, and enjoyed the evening we spent back together.

What happened a week earlier paints an entirely different picture. The Friday before I was to report to teacher in-service, my Dad was scheduled for surgery to remove his gall bladder. He was on my mind all morning and no matter how much I wanted to I couldn’t be there, as I had to be at home with the kids while my husband was at work. On the same day, my husband was in an accident in my car on his way home. I had the kids and his car, because for now it’s the only one that holds three car seats. I got the call, told the kids we were the “rescue team,” and we quickly piled up to go get Daddy off the side of the road. He wasn’t hurt, thank God, but my car suffered some pretty extensive damage. The driver that hit him admitted fault and was insured – another lucky break – so we got a rental and hoped we were headed for brighter days. But at school the following Monday my phone started buzzing during faculty meetings with the new principal. It turned out that our insurance company had dumped my car outside the locked gate of a shady collision center and it was broken into over the weekend. They needed me to come out right away to assess the damage and theft and file a second claim on the vehicle. I was on the phone with them all morning, sneaking off to the hallway or restroom, and listened in horror as their customer service incompetence reached appalling new heights.

On my lunch break as I sped to the godforsaken car place I knew I was on thin ice. Surviving on iced coffee and my own determination I had just barely made it to my first day back at work. After a weekend of childcare, Dad’s surgery and my husband’s accident I didn’t have anything left for this. I was at a breaking point. When I got back to the school parking lot after photographing my ransacked car and its broken locks and windows, I couldn’t get out of the rental truck. The insurance companies, hers and ours, were still calling nonstop. I was supposed to take over with the kids in a few hours (my mom and a friend entertained them that day), after an afternoon professional development session about lord knows what. I never made it back in the building.

I never made it because I called my Dad and asked if I could come over to their house and go to sleep. He didn’t require any further explanation, just said, “Come get some rest.” When I got there, he gave me a piece of chocolate cake. I slept for hours. The kids never knew what happened that day; they just thought mom worked really late. I felt like a failure, too weak to handle what comes when life rears its ugly head. Until I realized that having a dad to call when you’re out of options is what this whole thing ­– adopting our foster children – is all about. Perhaps someday, when one of our punkins is at his or her wit’s end, she’ll make that call and we’ll be there on the other end of the line, saying come on home.

How to be a mom in 7 days

Boy, are we in trouble.

It’s official. We kept three kids alive for a week. Actually, we did a lot more than that. We did diapers, practiced discipline, set up a routine, prepared kids’ meals, gave baths, sang songs, read stories, applied Band-Aids, learned to use a high chair and buckle car seats. We did not do it alone – I don’t think we could have at first – but with the extra eyes and ears of my family, texts and emails from family and friends (full of parenting web links and tried-and-true advice), and the prayers, donations, gifts and well wishes of many more. If you are among those who helped, donated or sent happy thoughts our way, we thank you. If I haven’t gotten back to you yet I apologize. Sometime before they are all 18 I will write a real thank-you note.

So how is it going? I keep getting asked and rarely have time to respond. As I write this, Spy Girl is chasing Puppy Boy around the living room and our toddler is having tea. There’s a fun game of see-if-mom-gets-mad going on, as she opens and closes cabinets, doors, the freezer. Dad’s at work and I’m in need of coffee, again. It’s the strangest combination of joy and terror I have ever experienced. I woke up every morning for the first six days afraid to get out of bed. There are so many things I don’t know how to do. I thrive on efficiency and I’ve been too exhausted to finish even the simplest task, outside of the basic care of the three musketeers.

__________________________________________________

It’s 7am now and I’m awake before the children for the first time. Every noise from our little bird to the coffee machine has me worried they’ll get up, as I won’t see time to myself again until maybe at rest time, 1:30pm, and if not then, 8:30pm tonight (and that’s only if they stay in bed). I am not afraid anymore; just very busy and very tired. Seasoned parents will laugh at my realization that children in theory are altogether different than children in practice. On the one hand, I’ve had tons of training to prepare to care for and rehabilitate the weathered souls of these babies. On the other, I took them to the park on my own one day – packed up three kids into car seats with drinks and snacks and sunscreen – and 15 minutes in, the oldest had to use the restroom. There was no restroom.

On day three I got out of the shower and smelled smoke. Surely Dad has this under control, I thought to myself. I got dressed and walked in to the kitchen and the 4 and 5 year olds started yelling that daddy set the toaster oven on fire. They pointed out the back window, where the appliance sat in the driveway. But where was Dad, I asked? As it turns out, there was a diaper incident as the toast was being made. Dad hurried off to clean up the mess, and the toast…well, the toast was toast. The “fire” was a bit of an exaggeration on the kids’ part. We had cereal that morning.

Our week as parents was a week of firsts. My husband changed his first diaper. We took our first trip in the car together, drove around the lake for the first time, saw dad’s movie theatre and mom’s school. More firsts are on the way as we visit the kids’ new doctor, new church and new daycare in the days to come. The kids adjust well – too well – as change is the only constant for many foster children. It’s amazing to me how brave and resilient they are, considering the hand they’ve been dealt. Literally overnight they had new rooms, new parents, new toys and clothes and yet somehow they adapt. One of the harder parts of our job is figuring out which behaviors are those of typical 2, 4 and 5 year old kids, and which are a result of what they’ve experienced. We had a problem with bananas disappearing. Our oldest has an excess of anxiety about kindergarten. The two year old wouldn’t let me pick her up for the first three or four days, which makes bathing, feeding and clothing a screaming little muffin quite a challenge. A lot of things got done simply because they had to be done, one way or another.  

“We’re your kids, right?” I was asked at lunch one day. 

As for us, the instant parents of three, we are in survival mode. I closed down Target the first night and Albertsons the second, trying to get everything we still needed while the kids slept. We have never been so tired. Dad still has work, and I have two weeks until school starts up again and my classes fill with teenagers who will now seem like giants. Foster kids qualify for everything – Medicaid, speech therapy, play therapy, Early Childhood Intervention (ECI), pre-K – and we are tasked with signing them up for all of it, immediately. I’m not sure when I’m supposed to find the time to do it, and in some cases I don’t even know how. Meanwhile, chores that were weekly are now daily necessities. We’ve never washed so many dishes or produced so much trash, and we’re doing laundry for five.

As we get to know the children as people it’s clear we have our work cut out for us. Like most kids they are playful and fussy and fun. Naturally they are confused about who we are to them and how long they’ll be here. We can’t even give them a straight answer. They’ve had so many homes that at times we can’t figure out which mommy they are referring to. At bath time, the oldest has told revealing stories about her history, explaining to me that since they are new kids, they are not important. She was shocked that the pink Smurf soap had been bought just for her. The four year old boy was sneaking off with the bananas, and he tends to hoard his toys. They got really scared when we drove past a police car. They’re feeling us out, testing us, trying to discern whether we will take care of them. The two year old is biting. All those episodes of Supernanny paid off when the oldest started coming out of bed ten times a night and we first made use of our calm-down corner. “We’re your kids, right?” I was asked at lunch one day. I wasn’t sure what to say. You can’t explain the legal process to them, the risk, the waiting, the complexity…so I just said yes. Of course you are. And hoped it was true.

They came, they saw, they conquered!

Everyone is trying to adjust around here.

Wanted to fire off an update this morning on the pandemonium that has been the last week and a half, as I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever have the chance again. Since we got the call last Monday that three children would be coming into our home, our lives and surroundings have been transformed.

Tuesday of last week we prepared the house all day for a home visit from our caseworkers at the agency. We will now be switched from our pre-placement caseworker to the post-placement girl. Wednesday they both came with a binder of forms we will have to keep up with. Doctor visits, allowance, incident reports, activity calendar, clothing inventory, and a page for every pill that goes in a child’s mouth - it all has to be documented. Quite a task, but they did tell me teachers (like myself) are usually great at it. I can understand why. We walked through the house and re-checked that all the safety requirements were still being met.

The remainder of the week is a mind-boggling rush for everything you need – and some stuff you don’t – to care for three kids. I’ve been living at Target; we’ve been through Babies R Us, Big Lots, consignment stores…and then there are the helpers – our friends and family who have taken us shopping, given us gift cards, even taken up collections of stuff from generous supermoms who have never met us or the kids. These new belongings are both wonderful and intimidating. I’ve stood in aisles of stores near tears because of the choices I don’t know how to make. Last night I asked a stranger in the Target diaper section what to do about our two-year-old (since they haven’t given us her weight, and diapers are by weight). You could see the confidence in my parenting skills all over his face.

Then there’s our house. Shawn and I have joked for years about a line from the movie/musical Dreamgirls, the Beyoncé version. In one of the newer, Oscar-nominated songs she belts out, “I am alone at a crossroads! I’m not at home in my own home!” When I say we’ve joked about it I guess I mean I’ve sung it loudly and he has laughed at me. Regardless, suddenly I am not at home in my own home, not in the least. What was our guest room is now the girls’ room complete with bunk beds and toy storage and lots of pink. The office/library? Gone. It’s now the boy’s room, covered in footballs, baseballs, basketballs…It never occurred to us where OUR stuff was going to go. For right now, the answer to that is a bunch of boxes in the garage.

We found out late last week that we would get to have one visit with the kids before they came. That visit was Monday morning, at our house. We worked tirelessly to get things ready. I wanted the rooms to look just right so the kids would know we made a great space for them. The usual Sunday night dinner with my family centered on what snack and activity to have ready. It was a long, nearly sleepless night for me as we waited to see the children for the first time. And then there they were!

Out of the cars of our caseworker and their CPS social worker tumbled three sleepy little angels. Shawn and I stared through the front windows to catch the first glimpse of what may someday be our children. They were shy at first, but warmed up quickly. The oldest girl is the leader and the most outgoing, surprising me with bold statements like “I want to see my room” and “Can I put my pillow pet on my bed?” The boy is the most active, and also the most particular. It’s common to see some OCD from kids who have lived in chaos, and I’ve already spotted it in him. And last but not least the tiniest little punkin, barely two, clutching everything she carried close to her chest and eyeing us suspiciously. It took her almost an hour to let go of the doll, blanket, pacifier and backpack that she surrounded herself with since she stepped out of the car. She never did let me hold her. But that’s normal.

They tore through the house, playing, observing, questioning. They had apples and Oreos. They colored. They jumped all over the new bunk beds. They met the pets, or at least the ones that weren’t hiding. At times I wanted to hide myself. What do you do in that situation? I watched them in disbelief. They are very cute. They’re tall. The girls have brown hair and huge brown eyes. The boy looks like Shawn’s coloring, hair that is more sandy blonde and eyes some mix of blue and green. They seemed to understand they are moving here. They asked if they could call me “mom.” What a loaded question that is. On the one hand, it’s what I’ve been waiting for all this time. On the other, it’s a sad indication of how they’ve been raised…in homes where whoever is in charge is your mom.

The kids filled our home with excitement and our heads with responsibilities. I learned so fast that it’s not really possible to watch all three of them at once. Even with Shawn, myself, and two caseworkers, we had our hands full. Still, the children were polite and cleaned up after themselves and were easily redirected from misbehavior. They were dressed very nicely and clean and happy, at least on the outside. Once Shawn saw their little faces plastered with smiles and their general joie de vivre, he was at ease. I was more concerned with how WE were doing, asking the caseworker, is this ok? The room, the snack, the toys…are we doing this right?

Now, it’s T minus two days until they come to stay. On Friday morning our caseworker will come early with more paperwork. At around 10 a.m. the kids will arrive with their CPS caseworker in a van with their only belongings, whatever they are. Our to-do list is evolving from the larger car seat and bunk bed items down to the day-to-day minutia type stuff. Since there’s no way to really be ready I’ve been focusing on the basics. What do we need to be able to feed, bathe, clothe, and care for them starting August 2^nd. There’s so much more to do, like finding day cares and schools and therapists, and in two weeks I’ll have to report back to work. But for now I’m hoarding bug spray and body wash and baby wipes and desperately wanting to know how anybody does this. How my parents did it. How will I do it? We’ll know soon enough. I’m just so glad we get to find out.

IT'S ALL HAPPENING! We are foster parents.

Visual approximation

They say the only constant in life is change. The bunk beds being installed in our guest room today are proof positive of that. This post has been percolating in my mind for five days. It occurs to me that I never thought in advance how I would write this one. The one where we got kids. 

At approximately 3:26 p.m. on Monday, July 22, 2013, Texas Child Protective Services confirmed with our adoption agency the (pending) placement of three foster children in our home. At long last! For better or worse, Shawn and I are going to be parents. In a great big hurry. Like ripping off a band-aid. 

How can I make this announcement sound traditional? It’s a girl! And a boy! And another girl! Bless their hearts. And they will come to live with us on Friday. Details! I will share all I can. As these are children in foster care and not legally ours, confidentiality must be maintained for the time being. I can say that they are a 5 year old girl, a 4 year old boy, and a 2 year old girl. They’re from a mostly rural background, they’re white, and they need a lot of help to overcome the abuse they have endured. The reason they’re coming to live with us so quickly is that CPS is removing them from their current foster home and wants a new placement right away. Two of the kids require play therapy, and their foster parents of the last year or so can’t meet that need. With children in foster care, meeting these needs is not optional – it is state law. So the state’s caseworker began searching for a potential foster-adoptive family, even though the kids aren’t legally free for adoption at this time. The state’s goal is unrelated adoption, as they expect that the children will not be able to return home to their biological family. This is in line with our plans to foster what they call “legal risk” children until they’ve achieved termination of parental rights and we can adopt them. 

So. 

The rest is a blur. I really don’t even have time to write this. I’m doing it for myself, so that I can take a minute to look at what is happening to us and maybe remember how I felt in the dozen feverish days I had before we became a party of five.

I could not write anything two weeks ago when Shawn and I were selected for another ‘staffing’ call for three Hispanic girls in Houston. It was once bitten, twice shy for me as we waited for the results of the caseworker conference call to come in and again, we weren’t chosen to be the family for those girls. I’d been losing faith in a system that hadn’t given us kids for two years. Two agencies. Three different adoption paths. Two chances at being picked that both fell through. Financial barriers. Heartbreaking risks and disappointments. A while back I took my little collection of if-we-get-kids stuff and put it in the closet where I couldn’t see it anymore. I was giving up. A week later, my phone rang.

She got the call today,
One out of the gray.
And when the smoke cleared,
It took her breath away.
She said she didn't believe,
It could happen to me.
I guess we're all one phone call from our knees. 

“Closer to Love” – Mat Kearney

We had four hours between the time the phone call came in and the time CPS confirmed they were placing the kids in our home. Now we have 6 days until the punkins arrive. We get to meet them only once before then, on Monday, for an hour. Right now we don’t even have a photograph. The growing pains are unreal. My emotions change every ten minutes, vacillating between joy, excitement, doubt and terror. My phone rings even more often than that, with calls from the agency and close family (the only ones who knew – until now!). Our to-do list is unreal. How do you prepare to raise three kids you don’t know in two weeks? Finally we are the ones ordering bunk beds and calling family and making plans – it’s all happening. Fast. This week has been the maybe the most surreal of my life. I thank God for our families. They are living proof of why these kids are so important. Family can be everything. And ours have done more in this one week – already – than I can ever repay them for. Bunks and books and toys and bedding, advice and infinite research on school, daycare, healthcare...We have car seats and mattress pads. We are going to have to buy DIAPERS. We’re swamped with paperwork, rules and regulations. As Shawn said, it feels as if we’re moving, but in our own house. Suddenly our books and trinkets are being packed away to make room for little clothes and toys.

We’re making room in our hearts as well. Just two weeks to adjust after 12 years together doing whatever the heck we wanted to do, whenever we wanted to do it. Shawn’s working on what will be our new daily routine. I may have to trade in my car. We wonder what is going to be the last movie we see together in a theatre.

We know it’s not about us. It’s about these kids. Three little ones who are about to have one of the worst weeks of their short, painful lives so far. On Tuesday, they go to a meeting to say goodbye to their biological mother forever. On Friday, they leave the foster home where they have been for over a year. And after all that shock and trauma, they will land here. I know there’s no way any of us will be ready – in any sense of the word - for what’s coming. Shawn compared it to standing at the edge of a cold pool. “You know it’s going to be cold and painful but you just hold your breath and jump in.” Just in case, though – could somebody keep a life preserver handy?

My momma told me to pick the very best one. And you are not it.

Mother’s Day is bittersweet around here. On the one hand, I’ve got a wonderful mom. She’s so smart, thoughtful and caring. She kept our elbows off the table. She managed to raise three girls who are able to navigate this challenging life, which is more than foster kids are equipped to manage, not to mention most of my students. I’ve got an amazing grandma too, still loving and funny and kind at nearly 90 years old. I’m so thankful to be able to spend time with them today, on their special day.

On the other hand, we lost my mother-in-law a year and a half ago and I miss her a lot. Nancy was one-of-a-kind; her spirit stays with me. And my father’s mom, the closest thing to a role model I had in this life, has been gone now seven years. Things haven't been quite right since she left us. And then there’s me. I’m not anybody's mom. Still.

I got really close the other day. I haven’t been able to write about this until now. Shawn and I got the call on a regular Thursday in early April. My students were out of control – you can’t leave them for a second – as I tried desperately to hear what our caseworker was saying on the phone. She was saying we had finally been chosen for what they call a “staffing,” which is essentially a conference call between caseworkers on which you may or may not be chosen for some actual real life KIDS. Kids that would come LIVE in our HOUSE shortly thereafter. Kids we would adopt. This was the real deal. We were being seriously considered. At last.

The first question that comes to your mind is WHO? Which kids that we submitted for was she calling about? At any given time there are up to 30 possibilities for whom we've submitted our home study. This group was a sibling set of three, Houston area, 2 girls and one baby boy, half white half Hispanic, one in elementary and the other two younger. Their caseworker was considering us for placement. We would find out in a week if we were to be the parents of three children.

I’m pretty sure my husband spent that week in shock. He didn't say much. My mind was reeling with the changes that would come if we were chosen. Car seats! Diapers! Schools! Chicken nuggets! We wrestled with whether to tell anyone. Should we get our close family and friends excited, when the potential for disappointment was so great? You see, on this staffing phone call there would be three families considered, not just us. So we had a 33% chance of getting them, and a 66% chance of nothing. My husband is the optimist. When I see a 66% chance of rain, I know it’s gonna rain.

In the end we told some people and not others, kind of weighing who could best handle the potential loss and whom we wanted to spare. Our caseworker was to be on the call one week later, so the following Thursday we waited with bated breath for the call to come through. I had to be at work – we were reviewing for the STAAR test – so I tried to maintain appearances while I watched the phone. She called around 1:00 pm. I could hear it in her voice when I answered. They chose another family.

It’s hard to know why we weren’t the best pick for the kids. We don’t get to make the case for ourselves. The staffing is caseworker-to-caseworker; each agency presents their family to the CPS worker on the phone, one at a time, and in Houston she said they usually call back an hour later with their decision. They don’t say why we weren’t selected. The only thing we know is the family that got the kids was Hispanic; maybe that was it, a culture thing. We kept picturing the new parents as gorgeous rich people with doctorates in Early Childhood Development.

I know it doesn’t really matter why. I know if you are like 90% of the population you’re thinking to yourself, everything happens for a reason, those weren’t your kids, your kids are still out there, everything in its own time, etc. And I thank you, because I know you don’t mean to sound cliché and obvious and hollow. You haven’t worked and waited and wondered and worried. You’re trying to be nice.

If you’re near your kids today, take a look and imagine if you had to fight for them like we are. If you had to be fingerprinted and evaluated and inspected and interviewed, just to get a phone call saying not yet, it’s not you, not your time. We chose this path, but it is hard and we’re in a heartbreaking phase, the part where some other couple is buying bunk beds and painting pink walls and calling family with good news. Maybe think of and pray for the foster kids out there that are lost in transition, traumatized and separated and sad and lonely because of the mothers and fathers who let them down. We got a broadcast this week for two elementary-age kids whose parents are in a cult. A cult. And it was our turn to say no, those aren’t our kids.

Once I was in a parking garage and came across a woman who was disoriented and bawling. She had clearly been drinking. I asked her what I could do. Did she need help? What she said was so surprising. “I’m a terrible mother.” And just then I knew she wasn’t. Because she was there, in a dark garage alone, crying over her children.

One of my students refuses to understand why I want kids. He says that I think it looks easy from the outside but I’m going to get more than I bargained for. And he could be right. But he doesn’t understand that’s how all of life is, how it’s going to be for him as well. Harder than you thought. I told him I want our family to grow, I want to share our love and wisdom, I want to read books at bedtime and cut up food and care that much about someone, even if I have to worry that much more, work that much harder. Even if I’m exhausted. Even if I’m not the best mom ever and I end up sobbing in a parking lot somewhere. I’ll take that chance.

Ultimately I want to say thanks, thanks to the mothers who are just out there doing their best. That’s all you can really do. Thanks to the supermoms with the crust-free sandwiches and monogrammed blankies. Thanks to my students' moms that do the unimaginable, working long hours into the night and still keeping their children fed and their clothes washed and letting them know they're loved, making something out of nothing day in and day out. And a special thanks to those who go out of their way to be mothers to the motherless. I hope someday to join you.